


The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Animal Abuse, Child Abuse, Long, M/M, Multi, Political Overtones, Screwy format, Tearjerker, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's face it, you learn a lot through life. Mistakes are lessons too, of course, you learn the best from mistakes. But really. You'd rather learn without the pain, wouldn't you? One hundred vignettes of six lives woven into a single story. Till POV throughout - mostly. [Till/Richard. If you are faint of heart, this is not for you. Contains concepts that will make you feel very uncomfortable, proceed with caution and read all warnings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Till/Richard, meta concepts, slash, depressing content, political overtones in some, possibly unsavory depictions of real-life people within the families of the band (although not to children), severe angst, screwy formatting, heavy German usage at parts, possibly confusing narrative (constant POV switches), tastelessness, blasphemy. Some sexual content but not strong enough to warrant warning. AU-ish for a reason. Trigger warnings for abuse of humans and animals, discussions of death, and abusive relationships.

**The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind - A Rammstein Fanfiction**  
  
\------------------------------------  
  
 **1\. The Time When Your Mother Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you awkwardly comb your hair and slip on a too-long pajama top before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen.  
  
Yout tiny feet go pitter-patter on the wooden steps as you stop halfway down and fit your six-year old self against the railings, peering down. You smell a very unpleasant burning smell, and see your mother coughing, waving away thick smoke desperately, almost weeping into her apron.  
  
You run back up the stairs.  
  
 **2\. Blue Blanket**  
  
The man has been pacing the corridor just outside the maternity ward anxiously for the past two hours. He reaches for the pipe in his pocket but makes no effort to take it out or smoke it, the smooth coolness of ivory against his palm soothing his racing mind. When the nurse finally pokes her head out of the door and calls his name, he looks around in a startled manner before following her inside.  
  
"It's a boy," she tells him as he stands by the bed; his exhausted wife is lying on the bed, but she looks quite happy to see him there. The man and woman share a little smile together. "did you decide on a name for him, Herr Lindemann?"  
  
"Let me hold him," he asks instead, and is handed over the newborn baby to cradle in his arms for the first time. _My boy,_ he thinks to himself as he sees the little child wrapped up in blue. The baby nestles softly to his chest, one starfish hand closing gently around the man's thumb, and he smiles wide. _My son. My Dietrich._  
  
 **3\. Welcome To The New World**  
  
Your name is Dietrich Lindemann, although you will later prefer being called 'Till' following the diminutive form. You were born into this world in 1963, in Leipzig, far away from the coldness of the then three-years old Berlin Wall. Your parents are named Gitta and Werner Lindemann and at this moment in time, they love you very much. This is a difficult world that you were born into, and you will go through many happy times and many sorrowful times, but I can guarantee you, it's going to be an interesting ride. When happiness comes to you (and one day it will), you'll embrace it with a smile. When tragedy comes to you (and one day it will), you will stick your chin out and endure, rebuild and rebuild until it's all okay again.  
  
But for now you are only very little. Sleep, sweetheart; there will be more to do for you in life later.  
Welcome to this new world. It's nice to meet you.  
  
 **4\. Four Terrifying Words**  
  
Once upon a time-  
  
 _Oh my God. This is going to end really badly, isn't it?_  
  
 **5\. Bottom of the Well**  
  
That's a misleading title, because you never see the bottom of any well as long as you live. When you're four years old you're taken to learn swimming; it's a bit later than most children, but it's better than never learning at all. You get to it straight away, paddling and wandering all about the swimming pool with armbands on, feeling childishly happy as you should be feeling at this age.  
  
You do have a moment, though, that'd have reduced any parent to a nail-biting panic. It's just something as simple as venturing a little too far towards the deep end of the pool, one that's corded off in case the children get in - but you manage to slip beneath the barrier and are submerged in the water completely, unable to find footing, drifting and slowly sinking. But you don't panic at all - just stare at the blurry lights above you, how everything sounds muffled and silent and ever-so-tranquil beneath the surface - and think that this is a nice place to be. Never mind that you're technically drowning. Luckily you're fished out and scolded by your mother, and have to leave soon afterwards; but your element has been awakened, you are a child of the water, the first gospel truth that you will live by.  
  
 **6\. It Runs In The Veins**  
  
Your son is a very strange boy, you decide when he's about five years old. "Till, come back inside," you call to him; he looks back at you from his seat in the garden, nods and picks up his notebook, obeying silently. He's not like most boys his age, never really wanting to socialize with a lot of people - but place him in the middle of a team sport and he'll perform admirably even at such a young age.  
  
"What's for dinner, _Mutti?_ "  
  
He's also hyperfocused on a lot of things. Toss him into a lake and he'll tread water for hours, never faltering, always gazing straight ahead. Bestow responsibilities on him and he'll get them done in double time. But ask him about how his day went, or what he wants to do during the weekend, and he'll just look at you blankly and refuse to answer. A very strange child. He's living in his own world half the time.  
  
" _Eisbein._ Wash your hands and help set out the table, darling."  
  
Though, unlike his father - you don't think that's a bad thing. Children ought to indulge in their fantasies when they can. Besides, isn't your husband himself a little strange too sometimes? Isn't everyone strange to a degree? There's nothing to worry about, after all. It is this attitude that you take to your son that makes him much more appreciative of you.  
  
Later on - much, much later on, over two and a half decades later, you'll visit your son and his young daughter at his place. You'll end up finding that _he's_ sprawled out on the floor, exhausted from basket-weaving, while _she's_ made a circle around his sleeping body and has written out ' _This is my Vatti and you can't have him'_ with bits of willow and straw by his side - and then realize that your grandchild, too, is also profoundly strange. And you'll laugh as you pick her up and hear her complain about how her _Vatti_ just fell asleep in the middle of talking, and remember fond times with your son when he was little.  
  
 **7. _Gummibärchen_**  
  
One of your favourite sweets, simple and yet so filled with nostalgia. You never bother hiding you love for those things, well into your thirties and forties. It's also one of the first sweets you ever taste; you find it a bit tough at first, but soon the texture of gummy bears become curiously very pleasant to you. They're not like hard candy or chocolate (though you will also develop an appetite for them later), neither soft nor hard - they're filled with just the right amount of chewiness and tangy flavor.  
  
This isn't too important, but it's a pleasant childhood memory. Better hold onto this one, because you won't get a lot of those during your childhood.  
  
 **8\. Tidal Wave**  
  
This is around the time that we have to establish that you are loved by both your parents.  
  
Your father, however, ruins a lot of your childhood for you by benefit of being drunk half the time. You enter sports school at his coercion and for most part you think you're a good boy, but he evidently doesn't share this view. Truthfully, you're a boy very far from his expectations - he expected you to be stoic and well-behaved and either becoming an athlete or entering some kind of academia. You're instead growing up to be this half-sullen, half-dreamy boy who barely talks to people and just stays indoors most of the time when you're not practicing swimming. You study just enough, but without much passion. You're a disappointment to him, quite frankly.  
  
Swimming is your release. And you don't mean that in the context of the sports school. You mean swimming an lake or ocean, indulging in the wide expanse around you. You feel free only during these times.  
  
Your parents both love you very much, but you only half believe that. A pity, really.  
  
 **9\. He Doesn't Like What You Do (Or You For That Matter)**  
  
You like writing. It's an escapist fantasy for you, a world of different possibilities. Of course you're only about eight years old when you start - they start out as diaries, little statements about your life, that soon become expanded into fantasy, into stories and poems. It calms you. Make you smile. Allows you to think properly.  
  
Your father doesn't like them, for whatever reason. It's even less comprehensible in hindsight when you consider that he, too, is (was) a writer. One for children at that. But either way your father doesn't like them so he tosses them in the fireplace and lights the fire and walks away while you sit there and watch them burn, your words becoming charred, crinkling up as if to escape its fate before burning up for good.  
  
But even early on in life, you don't protest nor think that this is in any way anything to get upset about, seeing your works amounting to ash. Hey. That's all anyone ever amounts to in the end.  
  
 **10\. The Time When Your Father Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you struggle with your still-oversized pajama top before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen.  
  
Your father is standing there, glasses steamed up and a vaguely disgruntled look on his face. He sighs and then dumps the smoking pot into the sink (filled with water). You'd stay to watch more, but you know he'd be on your tail if you got caught. So you run back up the stairs.  
  
 **11\. Freud Was Wrong**  
  
Not all boys resent their fathers because they have a Oedipus complex.  
Sometimes papa is a bastard who beats you every night and that's why you resent them.  
  
 **12\. Approximately Three Nights Every Week**  
  
"I'm going to beat you. I'm going to beat you, boy. Daddy's going to beat you."  
  
Work makes him drink. Drink makes him do that. Then he works again the morning after.  
You usually just endure the beatings silently; you _could_ cry, you suppose, but then he probably won't even hear you.  
  
 **13\. Nietzsche Was Right**  
  
You fight back, only once. And even then it's not even really a fight per se because you just want to go to bed and your father's drunk and letting you have it with the buckle end of the belt; at one point you just decide that you've had enough, you _really have had enough,_ and when the belt comes down you dodge out of the way before grabbing it, tearing it out of your father's hand and hurling it right into the fireplace with a scream. You father stares at you like you've gone mad and you stare back at him with a feral snarl until he turns around and leaves the room. slamming the door shut.  
  
You later retrieve the buckle afterwards to throw it away. He never beats you with a belt again; it doesn't mean that he stops beating you, but he's less frequent about it and he doesn't hit as hard as before. You don't fight him back either, you made the message clear enough that one time. Besides, you're too sensible to let yourself go.  
  
Do not fight with monsters, lest you become one.  
  
 **14. _Gott Ist Tot_**  
  
When your parents divorce, you are twelve years old and a very thoughtful (if somewhat gloomy) boy. You also decide right there and then that God doesn't exist. After all, if he existed, why does he make alcoholics abuse their family? Why would he let the Stasi sneak around, making East Germany a prison without bars (but with a wall instead)? Why in the world would the Holy Father, all-loving and eternal, inflict so much pain on his children?  
  
People who love God are delusional too, you decide. You can't stand it.  
God is the _worst_ lover. Not only does he think he's perfect, he apparently actually _is_. If that's perfection, well, you're satisfied to be alone.  
  
 **15. _Selbstbefriedigung_**  
  
Self-satisfaction is but a contradiction, though.  
  
 **16\. Those Damn Teenage Hormones**  
  
You don't much like sports school. You love swimming, but being groomed as a potential Olympics athlete is not what you want. Your parents would be proud though - even your father would be - so you don't object much. As you grow older, though, and become more jaded and distant from people, you become fond of self-deprecation and deliberately doing things that your team coach disapproves of.  
  
"That's it, Lindemann," the man shouts at you one day after you're caught hoarding porn magazines in your locker. "I've had enough of you and your bloody cheek. One more offense like this and I'm _personally_ going to make sure that you will never get another position in a national team."  
  
Your reaction to this is a shrug and a blank look, which riles him up so much that he ends up writing a letter to your parents, going into truly uncomfortable detail about how much of a miserable youth you are. The letter is forwarded to your father; when you visit him next, he's reading it, and even though you keep your face completely blank you aren't sure what's going to happen. He's still a dominating presence in your life, despite the fact that you are physically stronger than him now and can fight back much more effectively than you could back when you were younger.  
  
But life isn't that predictable, and with a derisive snort your father simply crumples up the letter and tosses it in the fireplace. "You appear to have an idiot of a swimming coach, Dietrich," he says as he leans back on his armchair, staring at you. "teenage hormones. Nothing to be ashamed of. You can tell him exactly what I think of him, boy. Would you like some schnapps?"  
  
 **17\. Scar Tissue**  
  
Your professional swimming career ends before it ever really started. And it actually ends because of a genuine accident, not long after the porn incident. A badly executed dive from an ill-maintained diving board leaves you stunned and slowly sinking into the water, watching your own blood spilling out into the water from the gash on your stomach as your horrified teammates seek to pull you out. You can almost swear that you've been through something like this before, helpless under the pull of the water; but that was so long ago, and then the water was clear and warm and soothing. Now all you feel is the pain, the water slowly clouding into red, obscuring everything for the short amount of time that you are underwater.  
  
Eventually fished out by your teammates, you are diagnosed with a torn abdominal muscle and are told that the scar will be permanent. That's your career over just like that. Your mother is distressed (predictably) and your father is livid (predictably), while your pain fades into apathy. And despite all this, you keep the peace, only saying that it was an unfortunate accident and then refusing to comment on it any further. No arguments this time.  
  
There is still a lot you resent your father for, that much is true. You blame him for a lot of things, and vice versa. With the porn magazine incident, your father never said that he'd take responsibility for the consequences of you _actually_ telling your coach what your father thought of him. And he is noticeably disappointed and angered when you have to leave sports school. But this time, you simply close your eyes and stay silent instead of lashing back at him; you don't blame him for getting angry because he never blamed you for that one time. Fair is fair.  
  
 **18\. The Triumph of 1776, Two Hundred Years On**  
  
You decide to move out and work as an apprenticeship eventually. After kissing your anxious mother goodbye and moving your things to the little apartment that you've rented out, you go and visit your father. It's probably going to be the last time you visit him as an obligation as his son; having declared your independence, you've freed yourself of that responsibility. By this time your parents have been divorced for nearly ten years, what's the point in hanging on when you just don't seem to be getting anywhere with your father?  
  
He doesn't take the news well. "Living by yourself!" he hollers. "what's going to become of you, Dietrich? All this without doing any military service or trying out for university?"  
  
"It's my life, father," you say coldly, before you turn your back on him with a shrug. You've had enough of arguing with him, so you don't, which only angers your father even more - this admittedly isn't the best way you could have informed him of the fact that you were no longer a child and thus no longer under his control, but it's certainly the fastest way. "and I fully intend to live it the way I want to. If that disappoints you - well, I can't say that I honestly care much about what you think of me."  
  
"You-"  
  
"And really, father," you shoot back. "I think that I am much better off for that."  
  
" _Dietrich!_ " your father shouts; he sounds surprisingly sober and almost-desperate, but you let the door swing shut and don't look back.  
You needed this freedom, and the brutality you possess from being so young helps, too.  
  
 **19\. Ecosystem**  
  
You celebrate your independence by getting yourself a fish tank and two fantail goldfish. They aren't high-maintenance and are very quiet and elegant - but it's watching them bustle about, eagerly getting along with their lives and even looking somewhat content despite the limited space, that is comforting to you. It reminds you that one can find joy in everything if you have the right kind of mental state.  
  
Never mind that your carpenting apprenticeship regularly leaves you with cuts and splinters everywhere, and that it's not quite a steady job at this present moment. You can come home, light a candle, and then just quietly watch the goldfish swimming in their tank. They ask for so little, get by well with so little - sometimes you do have to wonder, do the goldfish notice you watching them through the glass and think that _you_ are the imprisoned one?  
  
 **20\. The Time When You Burnt Breakfast**  
  
"Damn."  
  
You grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Waving away the smoke, you cough out loud as you hesitate by the window - do you open it and let the smoke out and draw the attention of neighbors, or let it stay in and risk triggering the fire alarm? Then you wonder why the hell you even made that a _choice_ , and open the window, breathing in deep lungfuls of air.  
  
When the smell of charred breakfast is diminished somewhat you look back at the frying pan in the water-filled sink; charred black and the water clouded with burnt fragments of food and ash and God knows what else. You pick it up and frown, reaching for the scourer - but before you can reach it, you are suddenly overwhelmed with the strongest bout of melancholy and your hands drop back down, splashing the kitchen counter with dirty water as the frying pan sinks back beneath the surface.  
  
Two weeks alone and you're not sure if you can really manage by yourself. You're so young after all, only just twenty, and even though you've been brought up in a single-parent household for most of the time that it mattered, you aren't actually used to being independent. Even the most minor stop of the gears makes you feel useless, make you want to run away, something as simple as finishing only five drawers instead of six at your job or burning the damn breakfast.  
  
You can almost swear that your father's laughing at you in the background. Shaking your head frantically to rid yourself of the image, you run back up the stairs.  
  
 **21\. Seven Years' Bad Luck**  
  
Your father was really drunk one day and told you that you were hideous and if you ever found yourself a nice _Fraulein_ to live with, he wasn't going to hold his breath and trust that she was going to be nice to look at. You just sneered at him and thought he was rambling meaninglessly then; besides, in the height of teenage rebellion, he wasn't exactly the first figure that you trusted for anything. But now that you're alone and at a stage where you're kind of meant to maybe look around for someone, his words come back to haunt you. You aren't exactly vain so your encounters with mirrors consist mostly of just watching the stubble on your chin as you shave; but today you're going to put this matter at rest. Good lighting, a large full-length mirror - you take a deep breath and look into yourself.  
  
You aren't the most handsome man out there, that's for certain. But you aren't fishing for compliments, you just want to see that you're at least average. Your lips are set in a firm line; they're pink and delicate, somehow very unfitting to your otherwise-heavy and muscled figure. You have the faintest of acne scars on both cheeks and you think that your jawline is perhaps a little too prominent and your facial expression is entirely too blank and devoid of any emotion. You feel like you're awkwardly proportioned; your chest and arms are very large compared to your legs, although you do possess a swimmer's body to die for. The only thing alive about you are your eyes, but then - eyes don't speak for everything. You turn your head to the side to see if you can find anything of much note, but you can't. Just more vaguely-pockmarked scars. Raising your hands up to touch your cheek, you remember that your fingers are bandaged from splinters gained from carpentry work - and then you start frowning.  
  
Maybe your father was right. Because...  
  
... quite frankly.  
You find your body hideous, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
[you don't want to feel this way **so clearly it's all his fault** ]  


  
  
  
 _Shut up!_ You scream. _Out! **Aus!** Out, out, out get **out** you **filth** get out of my sight **GET OUT RIGHT NOW YOU**_  
  
  
  
 _[filth]_  
  
You don't know who you're referring to anymore but then within seconds you realize and then you shudder and run out of the room  
  
(because you told yourself to.)  
  
...  
  
  
  
  
  
why is your hand bleeding?  
  
 **22\. The First Butterfly**  
  
From that day onwards, you decide that you are ugly.  
From that day onwards, you decide that no one could or ought to love you because of how ugly you are, and that you won't be loving a person back anytime soon. You sabotage your own self-worth, deeper - far, far deeper than you could ever imagine - and you're never really the same, ever again.  
  
You still feel lust and pleasure and you can still write about those things, but you don't identify with it yourself. You sleep with a woman once and then think that the whole thing's not worth all the fuss, so you decide that you aren't interested in sex, either. Pretty jarring, especially considering the kind of career you're going to be in later.  
  
 **23\. Responsibility Is More Than Just A Word**  
  
You do end up being very glad for having slept with that woman, though, because you experience fatherhood because of it. You might be a misanthrope but you are by no means immoral or cruel, and when the news reaches you, you immediately say that you will care for the child. Joy or sorrow is not a part of it - the baby's your responsibility, and you're going to respect that. The thought of marrying and being a family doesn't occur to you, and she doesn't look like she wants to be tied down with a husband either (not at your age, you two are still so young).  
  
But God forbid you inflict the pain your father inflicted on your childhood self on your child. You aren't going to be like that, no, not at all.  
  
 **24\. Thaw**  
  
Your daughter is born on a rainy day. The exhausted and vanquished mother nevertheless falls to a satisfied slumber soon after the birth, without complications, and that's where you come in. The baby's wrapped in a blanket - not pink, not blue, but white. A girl, they tell you, and ask you if you want to hold her.  
  
She is surprisingly heavy in your arms, heavy with life and a fully-functional body in miniature. You stare down at this being who you've had a part in creating - so little, and yet so full of potential. She's all soft and powdered too - and in your arms she stirs and clings to you sleepily, possessing absolutely no doubt that you are her father. She knows you from just your warmth and scent alone; from now on she'll follow you anywhere you go, and she will trust you and love you unconditionally as long as you care for her in return. Then you are suddenly overwhelmed with what feels like a mix of utter joy and an urge to burst into tears; you kiss and kiss her on both cheeks until they're both pink, eager to convey - _oh, sweetheart, my darling child, I'm your father, it's wonderful to hold you at last, you're going to be the best daughter in the world._ Holding your daughter, so helpless and quiet and sweet in your arms, you mentally revise your prior decision a little. You aren't interested in relationships nor do you love anyone romantically, but you do love your girl. That is a gospel truth.  
  
She does look a little bewildered at being showered with kisses, though, so you stop and let her drift off. She shifts against your chest - gives you _her first smile_ \- and then nuzzles into you, relaxing as she falls asleep. Not even a day old and she's already given you her first gift.  
  
Something thaws, and through the song of the rain, the beginnings of spring dawn within your heart.  
  
 **25\. Caramel**  
  
You name your daughter Nele, short for 'Cornelia'. It might be too archaic of a name in its full form, but then it's the same with you, isn't it? Dietrich to Till. Cornelia to Nele. She seems to like it, either way. And maybe it's just you, but your daughter has the loveliest scent about her; especially around the top of the head. It's a difficult smell to describe, but you suppose that 'sweet' is the most laconic description you can give for it. It doesn't quite do it justice, but that's what it is. Sweet, with a mixture of baby powder and milk.  
  
You always keep her cleaned, dry and well-powdered and every time you look at her you really do have to marvel at the spell she's put you under. She's just lying in your arms half the time, quiet and staring at you in the most curious manner (her eyes baby-blue, but you know that it will change and somehow it makes you feel a bit selfish when you want them to turn out green like yours), her soft caramel scent awakening more affection within you, day by day. When Nele grows up a little more, she'll love sweets; she'll pretend to be uninterested in them from about age ten onwards, not wanting to appear childish, but you know that her sweet tooth will always stay with her as long as she lives. And that's fine, because you have a notorious sweet tooth as well. Like father, like daughter.  
  
 **26. _Berliner Mauer_**  
  
You and Nele are two halves, you decide. The fact that you have no brother or friend to become the other half of you speaks volumes about how lonely you actually are, but that's a digression. She is a happy, innocent and ever-so-beautiful little girl while you are a somewhat grim, less than innocent (and hideous, you always tell yourself) man. But while she is helpless and so reliant on the kindness of others to survive, you have scratched out a living of your own and you have become reasonable content in it. Both of you have so much sorrow to go through in life, but you have been through more than she has - and you'll do anything to help Nele.  
  
But at the same time you are wary to bring her up in the way that _you_ think is right, or in ways more familiar to you. One of the worst things that parents can do to their child is attempting to live through them, see themselves in their shoes instead of their own place, and you know this. Though you are infinitely more sensible than many parents would be when you figure out that this dilemma is something that you cannot decide a solution on immediately - it's something that you genuinely have to adapt to as things go along. There will one day come a time when your help alone cannot teach Nele how to live and function in the world; when that time comes, you'll let go of the controls and delegate yourself to keeping a watchful eye on her. It is a very sensible solution, that principle of adaptation, if you think about it - you might not end up with a 'stance' per se, but it makes you learn, it gives you the best chance of survival. That's how humans all evolved in the first place. I mean, look at where rash decisions got the West and East, slicing the two halves of Berlin apart, leaving two brothers helplessly lost and staring at each other through a mere physical barrier. That's no way to treat such a fundamental pair, especially if it didn't need to be a pair in the first place.  
  
 **27\. The Checkout Line**  
  
Life isn't all sunshine and roses though, when you consider that babies are very helpless creatures by default. Nele has been nothing but healthy and spirited but one night she starts coughing and sniffling - something that all babies go through eventually, the first visit by the common cold. You stay logical and give her the medicine needed for it, cool her forehead, and keep her hydrated. However now you're faced with a little bit of a dilemma - her mother isn't available at the moment, it's the middle of the night, and you're running short on supplies.  
  
You ought not to leave your child alone. Especially when she's only about a year old. But right now you can think of nothing else to do - making sure that she most definitely is sleeping, you put on your jacket and run downstairs, hurriedly going into the first all-night shop that you can see. It's quite far down the road and it's not a place you've ever been in before; you nigh tear through the doors and hurtle down the aisles, quickly picking out everything that you need - diapers, baby formula, things that you feel like you're lacking at this present moment. The only person in the shop at the moment is a young blond cashier, who you're aware is staring at you most oddly as you make your rounds. Let him stare. It doesn't matter. You need to get back to Nele.  
  
"Do you have any cigarettes?" you ask him; he tells you that they only have Marlboro. You don't smoke Marlboro but hey, why not. Money gets exchanged, he gives you the change, and feeling a tad apologetic for your brusqueness, you smile at him as you pick up your bags. "have a good night."  
  
The cashier shifts a little behind the counter, clearly a little taken aback by your friendliness, but he seems pleased enough as he says "Thank you". When you get back, Nele turns out to be awake - but only a little grumpy that you left her alone. No accidents, no trouble. You kiss her forehead and murmur that you won't do it again, and by the time dawn falls, she's reasonably satisfied and asleep in your arms.  
  
... That boy looked a little younger than you, too. Nice to see that young people are working harder nowadays. That thought makes you feel kind of old.  
  
 **28\. Good/Bad Riddance?**  
  
Thinking of your father depresses you to hell and back so here's a brief leap to some years later and the termination of that particular branch in this tale; one day you receive a letter in the mail and think about what it might be as you set it down on the table. Nele's out shopping with her mother so you're alone as you read the handwritten address; it's not a handwriting you recognize but it must be one of your relatives, at least you're thinking that as you reach for the letter-opener and slice the beige envelope open, two sheets of paper tumbling out, and suddenly you have to take a deep breath and pour yourself some red wine from a nearby bottle because whatever this might be, _you really don't have a good feeling about this,_ and you are proven right ten minutes later when the wine bottle is smashed against the table and you slam the kitchen door behind you in anguish as the red wine - red as blood - soaks through the pages of the letter, smudging erasing _deleting_ those four words that will haunt you for life: [ ~~Your father is dead.~~ ]  
  
 **29\. This is The Man That You Will Love Later (But Don't Tell Anyone I Said That, Shh)**  
  
But that's a story for another time, so we move back towards the present. Two weeks on and Nele's shed the cough completely, healthy and sweet and rosy-cheeked as babies ought to be. A relief. Her mother's come around to take care of her for a few hours, so you can afford to go on a walk until three o'clock that afternoon; you make your way to a nearby park, sit down on a deserted bench and finally get to smoking some of those cigarettes. That pack of Marlboro you bought two weeks ago still isn't finished - you pick out the penultimate one and light it, exhaling pearly smoke into the cold autumn air and letting out a long sigh.  
  
"Do you have a light?" a voice asks, and a stranger stops beside you. You fish around in your pockets and pick out your lighter, flicking it on. Only then do you look towards the one who's spoken; he's shorter than you by a few inches, wearing a beanie hat, but you can swear that those blue eyes and blond hair are familiar. He gasps a little, apparently going through the same mental process as he stares at you.  
  
"Oh," your eyes widen in recognition. "you're the..."  
  
 **30\. The Time When Richard Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown - check on Nele, who thankfully doesn't look as if she's inhaled any smoke - before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen. A young man with blond hair is standing there, throwing open all the windows and frantically scrubbing the kitchen clean; you don't know what he burnt, but have no time to contemplate on that further when he turns to you, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  
  
"You seemed so tired," the young man mumbles, uncharacteristically shy as he twists the washcloth in his hands. "I... uh... I just wanted to save you some trouble this morning, that was all. Go back to bed, Till, I've got this under control."  
  
You could go back to bed but you don't. You stay and clean up with him instead, reassuring him that it's okay. By the time it's all over and Nele has been fed, it's near lunchtime and no food has been prepared, so you both just put on your jackets and head down to the streets - there's a convenient doner kebab stall about three minutes away, and that makes a excellent meal in itself.  
  
 **31\. Refer Back To The Checkout Line (This Is The Part Where You Laugh At Me)**  
  
 _Dein Name ist Richard Kruspe und du bist neunzehn Jahre alt. Du bist ein Kassierer; aber dein Beruf macht keinen Spaß, deprimiert dich und du kannst dich nicht entfalten denn du bist so jung und hilflos. „Gott, hilfe," du seufzt. So einsam doch nicht allein.  
  
Ein Kunde betritt den Laden und lauft so schnell er kann. Du siehst was er kauft: die Windeln, Milchpulver, zehn Apfeln, zwei Dosen Mais und - eine Packung Gummibarchen. Du findest das ganz lustig, er ist so groß un muskulös. „Haben Sie Zigaretten?" er fragt. Seinen Augen sind meergrün, du hast noch nie so schöne Augen gesehen.  
  
„Nur Marlboro, wie viele wollen Sie kaufen?"  
  
„Zehn. Was kostet das?" er ist in Eile.  
  
„Drei Mark."  
  
„Ich nehme es."  
  
Du nickst nervös. Er ist sehr schön, du denkst und du errötest. »Richard, denk doch nicht so viel,« du sagst selbst und du räusperst dich. „Gern, ist das alles?"  
  
„Ja, das ist alles."  
  
„So das macht - zusammen - 28.70 Mark," er gibt dreißig. „...1.30 Mark zurück."  
  
„Vielen Dank," er sagt mit einem Lächeln. „schönen Feierabend!"  
  
„... Danke."  
  
Vielleicht wirst du ihn wieder sehen._  
  
 **32\. Crash For The Night**  
  
After that little awkward moment, you introduce yourself to the man. His name's Till, Till Lindemann, he's four years older than you. He's a rather quiet soul, but his way of smiling and talking is fascinating to you, and besides it's been so long since you had a talk like this with anyone. "Come to dinner with me," he says just before three o'clock; seeing as you have nothing better to do, you accept.  
  
His home is clean and well-organized. You thought from what he bought the other day that he was probably married and with child, but it turns out that only the last part is true. He cooks you both a delicious dinner and then you talk for hours about the most minor things - you tell him that you're a young amateur guitarist living alone in Berlin, that you don't have many friends here and you're just scraping a living as a cashier at the moment, and he nods sympathetically. He too looks like a man who's been through many hardships.  
  
Clock strikes nine and you ought to be going back home, but Till has a protective instinct installed firmly within him as a result of having a baby daughter. He asks if you want to stay the night, that you can have his bed - it's not as if he's going to be using it, when he's so busy with Nele - and again, you don't find much incentive to refuse. Nothing awaits you back at your own place anyway, except for your guitar which until today has been your only friend in this city.  
  
His bed is a double, clean, warm and very soft. Much better than your own. His bed smells nice. _He_ does too, come to think of it. You smile at the thought.  
  
 **33\. First Arsch**  
  
Till turns out to be a batteur and bassist, running his own little band in a spare time. You find this quite charming - you have that reaction any time you hear about underground bands that practice loud music. When he tells you this, you're excited at the very thought of it, and flash back to your own guitar. You bought that when you were sixteen in Czechoslovakia, not with the intent to play but to sell it back in East Berlin where you could make a tidy profit from it. Needless to say, that didn't work out the way you intended. Maybe it's just a fantasy, a mad idea, but you almost want to show Till your skills, perhaps he might-  
  
"You said that you played guitar, Richard?" you nod. "excellent. We were just thinking about adding another guitar to the mix, too. I'm aware that you live fairly far away, though, so it's just a thought, if you want to-"  
  
For a day or two you think he just offered out of courtesy, not with seriousness, but you say yes with an eager heart anyway. And true to his word, when you next visit Till, there's a man there with blond hair and two silver earrings who gives you the sunniest of smiles as you enter. "So you're Richard? Till's been telling me all about you! I'm Paul, I've got my own band in addition to this one - it's always nice to see fresh talent-"  
  
Just a couple of weeks ago you were the loneliest person in existence, but things are kind of looking up now.

  
 **34\. Routine Practicality**  
  
Your life soon becomes a routine that you can adhere to. When you're not visiting Till, you travel from the other side of Berlin to your cashier job and work hard (you feeling less depressed about it than before does help). Then you head back and play your guitar, strumming until your fingers are calloused and rough. When you do visit Till, you often stay the night - you've stayed multiple nights in a row, too, at least a few times - and in exchange for company and the bed, you look after Nele and help clean the house when you're out and lend your talents to First Arsch. Paul also comes around often, and you've developed a close friendship with him, one that is more brighter than yours with Till (but somewhat less intimate). You also become a fan of and the occasional participant in Feeling B, Paul's band, so your musical creativity is allowed to blossom at last. It is in this way that you grow up and make the transition into your twenties. Sharing a quasi-fatherhood with Till, learning to be responsible without just being abandoned on your own half the time, breaking out of your shell - yes, you're maturing, and in a splendid way. You're probably more closer to Till and Paul than you were to your own parents and siblings, actually, and you don't mind that at all.  
  
Till, especially. You've become quite fond of this mentor figure and close friend who pretty much came to you from nowhere, and you're anxious to help him out as much as possible. You two even share the bed sometimes if you're over and Till is entirely too tired to make do with the sofa; the older man's far too exhausted to do more than just drift off for eight hours on it, but you tend to snuggle up to him for warmth, and the nights that you spend simply sharing slumber are the best of them all.  
  
Life is good. You are happy.  
  
 **35\. This Is Not A Free Speech Zone**  
  
It's 1989, just another normal October afternoon. You whistle a little tune to yourself, your longish hair falling about your face as you think of your plans for the day; a little bit of shopping, and then you're going to meet up with Paul and Till for another band session. With light steps you make your way down to the U-Bahn - your usual line's late, but there's one that stops roughly at the same place. You shrug and take the other line instead; life is all about adventures, however minor, after all.  
  
This thought proves to be more truer than expected when your train suddenly shudders to a halt within two stations. "What's going on?" you murmur, more irritated than anything - your unease only grows when people are ushered out and asked to wait briefly at the platform. In your impatience you just sigh and wonder if you can take a bus instead, so you run back up to the surface - only to find yourself suddenly being swamped by a crowd of people. " _Gott_ , what-?"  
  
The speech of the crowd is muffled. You can't hear what's going on, but you then sweep your gaze around the place just once, see the signs mounted on people's shoulders, the uniformed police shouting and running through the crowd-  
  
-" _Tear down the Wall!_ "  
  
And then you understand. You've come out in the middle of a political demonstration. Eyes wide, you hurriedly duck down and try to get back down to the U-Bahn; you're by no means a supporter of socialism or the Berlin Wall but this isn't right, you aren't meant to be here, you ought to stay far away from this place, this was a horrible mistake. Your sudden movement catches the eye of the Stasi, though, and before you know it you think you can see the U-Bahn entrance and all you need to do is to go down the ste **(thud)**  
  
 **36\. You Wake Up In A Room**  
  
When you wake up, your head really, really hurts and you don't know where the hell you are. Groaning, you heave yourself up on your elbows and try to think - you're in a white room, on a bed (the mattress is uncomfortably hard too), and when you reach up to touch your head, you let out a small yelp at the pain that jolts through your body. You're not going to be doing that again anytime soon. And for some reason, you're bruised all over and your entire body is aching much too painfully for any of this to be normal. Did you fall down the steps of the U-Bahn? Unlikely, you never even managed the first-  
  
-the door opens, and you spin around to find two Stasi officers looking down at you with a sneer. "So you're awake. Didn't know if you were ever going to," one of them says. "the boys beat you up pretty badly. Not that you didn't deserve it, though."  
  
Then it all comes back to you. "This is all a mistake," you whisper, feeling almost as if a lead weight's been dropped inside you as you realize that you were captured during the demonstration, that you've been thrown into jail. "I... I was just..."  
  
"Don't give me that, boy. I've heard the same thing every day for the past ten years. You were protesting, weren't you? I can just tell from your appearance, that rebellious teenager look - typical, protesting against things just to pretend that a brat like you is going to make the slightest difference-"  
  
"No! No, I _wasn't!_ "  
  
You're given a slap around the face in response and fall back on the bed, gasping with pain. "Six days," the man barks as he wipes his hand on his trousers, wrinkling his nose as if he's touched something particularly filthy. "seeing as you didn't have a weapon or sign on you, we couldn't keep you any longer even if we wanted to. But trust me, boy, we _want to very, very much._ Next time, you'll be here for a lot longer than that."  
  
"Filthy capitalist brats," the other officer sneers as they both rise and walk away from your battered form. "what's the world coming to?"  
  
The cell door clinks shut.  
  
 **37. _Jamais Vu_**  
  
Six days spent in utter solitude. Those officers are all the human contact you receive in jail. Some other guards do come in at times, mainly to give you food, but they don't look at you or talk to you, so you'd be hard-pressed to call that 'human contact'. You can't stand the silence. It makes your mind rush, digging up memories and your imagination running wild in an attempt to distract you from the dread and madness settling in. Getting beaten up again would almost be preferable. During your time in jail you think about a lot of things, your fingers itch to hold your guitar, you think of Till and his baby girl and wonder what they're doing right now. He must be so worried. But you have to stay strong. You have to get out of here and go back home unscathed. If you lose your mind, you won't be able to do that. It's hard though, when all you keep remembering is your less-than stellar past. Some are born mediocre; some achieve mediocrity; some have mediocrity thrust upon them; for you it was all three. The middle child, never old enough to be considered trustworthy but never young enough to need caring for. Complete with a stepfather who hated you, it was just downhill all the way.  
  
Determination tastes like ink and blood. Your stepfather tore down a KISS poster in your room once and destroyed it. You rolled up your sleeves and stuck the whole thing back together with tape, the sharp poster fragments smudging ink onto your hands and slicing the tips of your fingers open whenever you were too hasty. But in the end you did it. It was fragmented, not quite the same, but you mended it successfully. You paid for your love of music in papercuts and anger, and were rewarded with the incredulous look on your stepfather's face when he saw it restored. (Oh, how proud and smug you felt about that.) As you shut your eyes and bite the inside of your cheek you taste blood and the will to get through this alive, to come out in one piece and see Till and Paul and your friends again, arises deep inside you.  
  
But East Berlin is no longer the place for you. They did not break your spirit, but they broke your attachment to the place.  
  
 **38\. Came To Say Goodbye**  
  
When you are released, you don't look back as you walk away. No subway this time, you don't want to deal with that. The only people who you want to see are your friends. You're quite a way away from Till's place, it'll take you quite a long time, but with freedom singing in your heart you're sure that you can make it on foot.  
  
An hour later, rather disheveled and tired, you reach your friend's apartment. You're thinking of how to explain your week-long absence. Stumble up the steps and raise your hand to knock; but before you can even do so the door flies open and then Till is there, and he's clutching you tight - _Richard, Richard, what did they do to you, Grüßer Gott, are you all right_ \- and _then_ you feel the tears spill, the tears you have held in for a week now, and all words are lost. He leads you in - Nele, four years old, comes up to you nervously (' _Onkel_ , are you okay?') and Till gently tells her to go and wait in her room. And you're just sitting there and crying and it only hits you then how frightened you were and how much you missed Till's warmth.  
  
"But you weren't protesting, right?"  
  
"No, I was just - I was just _there_ , and..."  
  
No more words are necessary. The tears stop after a while; you lean back, exhausted, and then you voice the decision that you made in jail. "Till, I ought to leave the East."  
  
He knows that he has no right to protest that; his eyes just cloud over and then he nods, just a little reluctantly. "I understand."  
  
"Come with me."  
  
"I can't."  
  
And you understand that too, even though it hurts. At least you won't be going anywhere without some food in your stomach and a good long rest, he tells you, so you still have that. You ought to enjoy it when you can.  
  
 **39\. The Great Escape**  
  
Ends up not being so great. It's by no means adventurous, really - you have to sneak out by Czechoslovakia before you can move to West Berlin. And life is so much better there for sure - you've even managed to find yourself two fellow East Germans to room with for the time being. Their names are Oliver Riedel and Christoph Schneider; they were sympathetic and welcoming towards you, especially after you told them why exactly you left and showed them the fading bruise on your head. They're also interested in music, and don't mind when you strum on your guitar - in fact they often sit to listen to you or join in with their respective instruments.  
  
But you miss Till. A lot. Of course within two months, something drastic will happen and you will be reunited with them - but right now, that's not what you're thinking. Does Till think of you a lot, too? How's Nele doing? How's Paul? How's _everything?_  
  
Strange how no matter how much things sucked back then, you end up missing it anyway when you've removed yourself from it.  
  
 **40\. The Time When Paul Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen. Paul's there; two charred pans are set aside on the counter and there is a black smoking mess on a plate. You have no idea what that is, but he's not interested in eating that. He's nibbling on a banana.  
  
"This - this guy at the west side taunted me," Paul slurs out when he sees you. Not only is he eating a very rare and expensive fruit, he is also very drunk. "so he was saying, 'Hey, we have bananas and you don't!' so I told him, 'So what? We have Socialism!' and guess what the bastard said?" he rubs his hands together. "'Well, we'll have _that_ soon too!' then I gave him the answer of his lifetime, Till. He was so impressed that he threw me these bunch of bananas from the other side! So I told him - 'then,'" he giggles. "'why, then soon _you_ won't have any bananas either!'"  
  
You don't even know what to say to that. So you turn around and walk back up the stairs.  
  
 **41\. Smile**  
  
Your name is Paul Landers. It used to be something completely different, but there's no point in digging that up now. Right now you are walking along the streets, a guitar slung over your back, without much purpose or direction; this isn't important to you, though. For you, the fact that you're walking and enjoying life in this world is enough. Turning right, you walk through the quieter suburbs of Berlin, gazing at the clean exterior of the houses with mild interest.  
  
Anyone looking at you might mistake you for a bright young boy of fourteen, maybe fifteen, making a paper round or simply going over to a friend's house from the way you smile and the way you skip along the pavement lightly. None of this is true. For one, you're actually seventeen years old even though whoever's looking at you would never suspect it. You were born premature and since then you've always been a fairly small boy. You're not here to visit anyone, either; as you go past one particular house you pause a little to look at what you don't have. A boy with honey-brown hair and glasses is sitting by the window, scribbling something on it. He has a very severe look on his face - almost old enough to pass as your age, although upon closer inspection you can see that he's actually quite some years younger than you. You'd muse upon this fascinating specimen for a while, but then the boy looks at you with a little frown, doubtless wondering why you aren't minding your own business. So you just wink and move on.  
  
The world is beautiful, you think to yourself, in times like those - a lady walking past you drops a book, and you pick it up and hand it back to her politely with a little smile and a bow. She thanks you with a smile of her own before continuing on your way - that's what your infectious charm does to people. Admirable, really. Why, your smile is so beautiful and so bright, that no one would even suspect that this is your fifth time running away from home at all.  
  
 **42\. The Second Butterfly**  
  
Before you meet your friends, your life becomes rather hectic - especially when you turn eighteen. In the East that means that you're meant to be doing military service for a while; you ought to stay put and wait for the notice to arrive. But you don't do that; your life sucks so much back home that you just decide to go to the office and apply directly instead. Anything to leave. They reject you because you are too short and underweight and not exactly the fittest person to serve, and they write your name down so that you aren't called upon by them again. No army service for you.  
  
In another world, you probably would have stuck it out until the notice came and _then_ refused to go. But you in your physical state wouldn't have fit the bill anyway, so even though you actually visited them yourself, the outcome is exactly the same. That's a guarantee in all universes.  
  
Still, you tried. ( ~~You damned conformist.~~ )  
  
 **43\. Feeling B**  
  
It is 1963 when you form your first band; it's manned mostly by your close friend and mentor figure, Josch Rompe, but he acknowledges your talent and frequently puts you in the front whenever you perform. You're making punk music in a time when making too much noise would have gotten you thrown in jail; you have quite the nerve, if you stop and think about it, but you don't generally focus on that very much.  
  
Amongst your bandmates is Christian Lorenz, who plays piano/keyboard. Your meeting with him was actually somewhat earlier than that - he was that boy by the window, even though neither of you remember this - but he really caught your eye when you saw him in a market one day. He was fairly well-dressed, well-groomed and quiet, so nothing could have prepared you for the moment when you saw him approach a man, pull out a jacket from his bag - unlabelled, handmade - and handed it over to him, getting a hefty amount of money in return.  
  
"How in the world did you do that?" you asked him quietly, approaching him when the man was long out of sight. He looked at you oddly for a bit, wondering whether to flee or not - but then you showed him your guitar and earrings, confirming that you weren't exactly in any position of authority yourself, and then he relaxed.  
  
"Only by taking refuge in audacity," he told you, head held high and completely lacking in guilt. "we've all got to survive. I learnt to sew and make them out of bedsheets."  
  
"You don't look like you need to do this, though. How old are you?"  
  
"Seventeen, but I don't think much of being dependent on others," he said haughtily. "I moved out. Who are you, anyway?"  
  
"Paul Landers. I'm not exactly dependent on others, either. I'm in a band at the moment."  
  
"I can see that," he said, pointing to your guitar. "I'm a pianist myself. It doesn't pay the bills, but it'll come in handy one day. I hope."  
  
You then proceeded to allow his playing to actually pay the bills by accepting him into your band, and letting him live with you instead of having to provide for himself all the time.  
  
 **44\. Great Fucking Job, You Blind Fools**  
  
To you, ideology really doesn't matter. As long as something is done about living standards in the sinkhole that is East Berlin, you could care less. But then Richard gets hit on the head and thrown in jail and you are angry, more angry than you've ever felt before - all that progress you saw from that young man, totally wasted. Driven away to the other side of the wall just to escape from it all. You don't blame him, though. You want to leave as well.  
  
However, you're a small man and not exactly in the best of shape. You're not an athlete like Till is, for example. You'd never make it across the death strip if you leaped over or otherwise. But what you can do is make music that _contains_ emotions that would come with leaping over the Wall, so that's what you do.  
  
Besides, you don't think you'd be brave enough. You're the kind of person who thinks bravery is a delusion.  
  
 **45\. Liberation**  
  
On the 9th of November 1989, though, everything changes.  
  
"All GDR citizens from henceforth-"  
  
It's the moment you've been waiting for. You run out onto the streets, Till joins you - Nele has to be kept back, though - and countless citizens are already out there, marching towards the Wall. Hundreds. Thousands. You are united in your fierce joy. Across the wall there are shouts, from the guards bewildered by the sheer amount of people threatening to overwhelm them and from West Berlin citizens demanding their brethren in their arms right now. "I'll get the car," Till shouts.  
  
"Forget it! We're climbing over!"  
  
"-will be permitted to visit West Germany and West Berlin-"  
  
You only later will get to know that the minister making this announcement made a mistake, nobody was meant to just _leave_ on the 9th of November. You were meant to need visas. But you want to see, you want to leave, want to break through and see the half of Berlin you only knew existed and never was entirely real to you for your entire life. Remember what you thought earlier, about bravery being a delusion? Well, you run, run through the crowd with Till in tow and feel madness rushing through your veins, a certain delicious insanity burning in your eyes, and know that you were wrong. And by God, does that feel good to admit - someone grabs you, presses a chisel in your hand before pushing you towards the Wall and you shove past a young guard who helplessly tries to shout out ' _Halt!_ ' and is drowned out by the crowd - and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and then, and _then, and then, and then, and then and then and **then and then and then**_ -  
  
  
\----- t h e  
\---------- **W a l l**  
  
\------------------------------ f  
\------------------------------- e  
\-------------------------------- l  
\--------------------------------- l  
\---------------------------------- .  
  
 **46\. What Now?**  
  
Once you're over the Wall and the euphoria wears off, you sit with Till where you can see the rubble being cleared away and then realize how utterly lost you suddenly feel. "What now?" Till murmurs next to you - you're both eating gummy bears. (Better than usual.) It feels empty and almost hollow to be sitting here now, staring at the rubble being cleared away.  
  
The Wall isn't fully down by a large margin. All the guards have deserted and the gates have been torn down, and some people with chisels and hammers tore through little sections of the Wall and barbed wire as well. You contributed to that after all. But it will have to be properly knocked down with bulldozers.  
  
You bought those gummy bears on the other side, and even as you sit there you can see the apartment blocks standing in the West side, cleaner and taller than the ones usually seen in the East. Strange how far the two halves of Berlin have come without seeing each other for over three decades. But as you ponder on this, you come to a rather uncomfortable truth; the physical barrier might be down, but there will be a mental wall between the East and West Berliners for a long time onwards. Thirty years, while nothing to marvel at, is long enough for such a divide to take root. It's long enough that thirty-year olds don't remember how it was before.  
  
Your thoughts are then promptly switched towards something happier when Till suddenly stands up besides you, green eyes wide and alert as he points to something in the distance. "Paul," he murmurs in a shaking voice. "Paul, am I seeing things or is that-?"  
  
"What?"  
  
No, he's not seeing things. A young man emerges from the Western side, from one of the gaps in the Wall; he brushes up against a chunk of concrete and it crumbles a little onto his shirt, making him wince and dust himself off in a somewhat irritated manner - before you and Till lock gazes with him. His eyes widen, at first with shock and then with delight before he starts running over to you with a joyful shout.  
  
"Richard, oh, _Richard_ ," Till's shouting as he too runs over and meets him halfway, holding him in an almost-crushing embrace. The sheer elation exuding from the two of them is infectious, and you are overcome with an urge to grab the two of them and laugh and cry until you're exhausted as you make your way over to them - only to find that two other men have emerged from the gap, giving Till and Richard a slightly confused look.  
  
"Who are those people?" the shorter (but more muscular) of the two asks, nevertheless making their way to you with curiosity written all over their faces. And then you think: _fuck the mental divide, we've got new friends to introduce ourselves to._  
  
 **47.  The Third Butterfly**  
  
Back to Richard. You move back to (what used to be) East Berlin, this time choosing an apartment that's closer to Till's place. With freedom singing all around you, there is no more need to stay hidden; you branch out and get to know other bands besides First Arsch and Feeling B, start your own, fully integrating yourself into the music scene of Berlin. Your return has made you a lot more happier, and the same goes for all of your friends.  
  
"Thank you for coming back," Nele's mother says to you one day on the third anniversary of the removal of the Berlin Wall; you come across her during the celebrations. "I still remember all those times Till spent talking about how worried he was, during that couple of months you were away."  
  
"Well, life was all right in the West," you say honestly. "but nothing is quite the same without friends."  
  
"Indeed," pause. "would," she hesitates and looks at you. "would you like to come with me for a drink?"  
  
You could say yes and then end up drinking too much because you aren't exactly someone who turns down a free drink, and that night would have resulted in something very significant happening to you. But this is not the case this time; you are aware of the fact that this woman is Nele's mother and Till's ex, there's no sense in getting mixed up with her. It can do no good for her, Till or you. So you just bid her a polite goodbye and leave.  
  
It's by no means a wrong thing you did. In fact, it was a very, very moral thing; the most righteous of men wouldn't have done any different. It's just that, well, the most moral decisions don't always lead to the most desirable outcome. Such is life, as cruel as it seems.  
  
 **48\. Fit The Pieces Together**  
  
Life is good, again. But you can't help but think that you want more. Your closest friends are all musically inclined - why not pick the best and run with it? Your leadership skills are actually quite pronounced by this point, as you've been given a chance to exercise it for real - you'd be lead guitar in a new band, that's for certain. But how else would the rest of the band work? You need a bass, at least one guitar, drums (Schneider's specialty) and a vocalist. That's the most basic four-piece band you can think of, and you don't doubt that you might end up needing more people or some people might have to end up switching roles - Till can do both drums and bass, for one, and Olli's good with an acoustic. (The combinations!)  
  
You're a good singer yourself, but you can't imagine yourself being lead guitar and lead vocalist at the same time. Your dilemma is solved when one day you enter Till's apartment and immediately hear a soft, melodic voice singing a song. You think for a moment that Till might have put on a record or something and look into his workshop but he isn't there; no, he's with Nele in her bedroom, singing her to sleep. It's a deeply paternal scene and one that you shouldn't be intruding in, but this is the first time you've heard him sing, really sing - and by God, his voice is _incredible._ You almost wonder how a man of his size can even hold such soft tones for a long time - he's untrained, that much is obvious, but in this case the rawness of his voice makes it better.  
  
You want that. That is the voice that you need.  
  
 **49\. Formation of the Hexumvirate**  
  
One last point of view for Paul. It's all decided by early 1994. Till as vocals, Richard as lead guitar, Schneider on drums, Olli on bass. (Convincing Till is a journey to hell and back, but somehow it gets done.) You join them as rhythm guitar soon enough. Now if only the other one would comply.  
  
"Just give me an answer, are we-"  
  
 **50\. The Time When Flake Burnt Breakfast**  
  
"What the hell are you talking about. I would never do such a thing."  
  
That above statement is proven wrong one morning, when you wake up and you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen.  
  
Flake's standing there, staring down at a smoking pot with an odd expression on his face, one of simple, almost childlike bewilderment as if to ask - _how in the world did I manage to do that?_ He picks it up by the handle (you can't figure out what he was trying to make) and frowns at the charred pot for a second, but it's not a frown of irritation - rather, it's one of curiosity and wonder. From all you can see, Flake wants to take apart the pot right there and then and examine its structure to see what he could have done differently.  
  
Just as you're thinking this, though, he turns his head in your direction. You manage to duck out of sight before he spots you, and you run back up the stairs.  
  
 **51\. It's Okay, Mozart Did The Same Thing**  
  
Your name is Christian Lorenz, except it's not. It's Flake Lorenz. Sorry for the confusion. From a young age, you've proven yourself to be good at the piano. You're by no means a virtuoso, but you love the peace and melody it offers as you sit in front of the chair and feel the keys beneath your fingers. However, you only get to enjoy a proper piano during the daytime. Having an actual one at your home is too much of a luxury, and you do understand that; it does mean that you come home late, though, because you're often too busy practicing in the music room until school has to close for the night.  
  
It's not long before you figure out a way to get around this at home. You draw three octaves with black marker on your window (can't fit any more on the glass, sadly), accurately proportioning the black and white keys to your fingers, and you practice on the window whenever you can. It's without sound, but you're gifted enough to be able to imagine every note corresponding to every key. You can even figure out when you're making mistakes and what it sounds like. It's not the most adequate thing to have around - but what can you do? At least you always get in your practice for the day. That's all that matters.  
  
 **52. _Ostalgie_**  
  
"I kind of miss the East," you shrug. Paul stares at you like you've grown a second head. You have a habit of saying things like that, but at least you're honest; you do miss the simpler days of the East. You despise overt complexity in your life.  
  
That, and well - you can't help but think that the ways you survived in the East were the _most important things_. They made you what you are now. Playing with Paul in Feeling B, hiding from the authorities whenever you made things to sell illegally, practicing on your window because you couldn't afford a real one. You flash back to the winter day when that window nearly crippled your career as a pianist; you were simply playing a Czerny piece. There was no way you could have known that coupled with the cold temperatures, and the constant thrumming of your fingers on the glass, the window had been greatly weakened.  
  
You were halfway through when suddenly your fingers broke straight through the window; there was a tremendous shattering noise, bits of glass fell all over you and embedded into your skin but you didn't even scream because you were too shocked to even react. Your makeshift piano fell away in front of you just like that and then your parents were there, pulling you away, shouting in horrified voices as they prepared to take you to the doctor.  
  
Nothing is left of that time except for the faintest of scars on the back of your left hand, thankfully far away from the places that would impair your playing. When you turned fifteen you actually received a piano for your birthday gift. A real one, with a warm woody scent and a clean black polish to it, with real ivories that you could tickle. After that you moved onto keyboards. But it is always your windowsill piano that you will remember, the one that made no sound nor had anything to press on and nearly impaled you to boot - but the only one that shone sunlight on your hands, warmed them in the cold winters of East Berlin, the first and the most lasting.  
  
 **53\. But Hexumvirate Isn't Even A Word, Goddamnit (So You'd Say)**  
  
"-are we six, Flake, or are we five?"  
  
You don't reply. But you follow Paul to the studio the day after, and then the day after that. Soon you are the established keyboardist of Rammstein.  
  
But despite this, you don't actually give him an answer. You don't think you ever will; your actions should be enough. Whatever happened to minimalism?  
  
 **54\. The Wonders of Language**  
  
Thus Rammstein begins. Even in your cynicism you have to admit that it's more fun than you expected it to be. You actually have a more daredevil soul than you yourself realize; you enjoy listening to Paul practicing, watching Schneider spacing out at the most hilarious times, tuning Olli's bass for him (or rather, help him tune his bass by lending him your unique talents which will be mentioned below), and you even enjoy worrying about how the band's going to turn out. But most of all, you enjoy lyric sessions, watching Till and Richard put heads together and scribbling down words and concepts. You and Olli are also very frequently consulted when it comes to setting them to a tune, as well. It's going all very smoothly. Till's poetic genius and his ability to manipulate words to his will gets your full approval.  
  
Maybe New is(n't).  
Maybe German does(n't).  
Maybe Hardness is(n't).  
  
 _English_ is a fascinating language. Considering that it's a Germanic language, you aren't surprised.  
  
 **55\. Mixed Blessing**  
  
You have a rare musical gift. Or sometimes, as you like to put it, a rare musical curse. It never used to be a problem until you began lending your talents to the metal genre, known for its dissonant, atonal melodies and rhythm. It drives you up the metaphorical wall (oops, don't let Paul know you mentioned a wall), and you really have to wonder why you ever chose to be here. Especially during times like those when you just want to take a nap.  
  
" _Ramm-stein!_ " Paul hollers from the practicing room, and you groan and put the pillow over your head. By no means does Paul possess an unpleasant voice, but the _way_ he sings those syllables is _wrong,_ it's not quite the _right pitch_ or the _correct tone_ and no one will be able to understand you if you complain because they can't perceive music in the way you can.  
  
That's right. When God made you, he bestowed upon you perfect pitch. Aren't you happy?  
  
"No."  
  
Ah. Pity.  
  
 **56\. Decisions, Decisions**  
  
"I think Richard has a crush on you," you tell Till outright one day when you two are alone at the studio. You were never the one to mince words when it came to things like this. He raises an eyebrow as he considers this. "it's obvious. And why _wouldn't_ he have a crush on you when you basically pulled him out of a miserable life? The way he holds you during 'Heirate Mich' can't be a coincidence."  
  
"Flake, if everyone who got helped by others developed a crush on them, the world would be too insane to live in. I tend to pretend to do you up the arse during 'Bück Dich', but that doesn't mean a thing, does it?"  
  
 _You mean that the world isn't insane enough already_ , you want to ask: but unfazed, you just sip your coffee. "That's the key, though. _Pretend_. It's part of our act, it would be problematic if you actually did do me up the arse. No one told Richard that he ought to be holding you close, but he does it anyway. And stage performances aside, just the way he looks at you and acts around you is confirmation enough for me."  
  
He looks a little perturbed at that. "Well, it's not that I'm _not_ fond of him," he says reluctantly. "but... well, I'm not exactly seeking a relationship at the moment. With anybody. And you know about the..."  
  
"Yes," you answer quietly. You are the only one that he's told about the mirror. "I do."  
  
There is silence for a while. "And Richard has a fiancée. He's getting married in a few weeks."  
  
"True," you say, and then you drop the matter; but even though Till probably dismisses you as just spouting nonsense, you know that one day you informing him will come in useful.  
  
 **57\. The Shortest And The Most Common Love Story**  
  
Longed for them.  
Got them.  
Shit.  
  
 **58\. The Fourth Butterfly**  
  
Richard doesn't want a bachelor party. The night before the wedding he calls you up and asks you to take him to Till's place, so that he can pick up his tuxedo and such; you comply, and you two have been in the car together for about five minutes when he breaks down and confesses that he wants to stay with Till because he's honestly quite terrified and doesn't quite trust himself to be able to go through with it should he be left alone with his thoughts. "I'm very nervous," Richard murmurs; he looks at you, and then you realize that this must be the first time he's ever admitted this. And that somehow _you_ became the one to hear his confession. "you... you guys will... be with me, right?"  
  
In your anxious desire to comfort him, you look at him in the eyes and tell him the one thing you never thought you'd ever say.  
  
"Of course. We're in this together. All _six_ of us."  
  
Richard smiles at you gratefully, you smile back, and then you carry on. He'll be seeking your advice and friendship more than ever afterwards.  
  
No one's saying that you didn't do a good thing, by confirming your stance once and for all. Nevertheless. that's the fourth.  
(We're past the halfway point now. It'll make all make sense soon.)  
  
 **59\. Cold Feet**  
  
You have to say, this isn't the way you saw Richard's final day of bachelorhood turning out. He's currently pressed close to you, wanting to share your warmth and sleep with you like you used to do ages ago, for the final time. This wouldn't be anything to protest about, if not for the fact that the wedding is only hours away and he's not acting at all happy.  
  
What's wrong with him? You wish you could ask. But your attempts to coax out an answer from him fail as he just shakes his head and turns his back on you. Looks like you're not going to find out anytime soon.  
  
It doesn't mean that you'll stop being trustworthy after he gets married, though. You feel a little wounded at the implications, but at the same time, that's not something you can help. So you just pull the covers over both of your bodies, sighing wistfully before spiraling into sleep. Little do you know that he's having serious doubts about everything at the moment, and that he's not even sure if he loves his wife-to-be.  
  
"Get up," you tell him at eight o'clock sharp, shaking him awake. His blue eyes flutter open dazedly in response; for a moment you can almost swear that he's leaned into your touch, smiling a little, but then he blinks again and dread settles over his face. "you're getting married in a few hours, Richard. I'll make us some breakfast, and then you ought to wash and put on your tux."  
  
With that you turn to go; only to stopped by his shaking hand grasping at the hem of your shirt. You turn around with a half 'Yes?' but the words are lost as you look at him, trembling, nervous and just as childishly scared as he was when he was released from jail. He opens his mouth as if to say something; but then stops and lets go, biting at his lower lip before he pushes past you into the living room.  
  
You've seen that look before. Last time he was acting like this, he sneaked out of East Berlin. Given, it did do him good - but you really hope he's not going to do anything rash on his _wedding day_ out of all days.  
  
 **60\. The Time When Schneider Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen.  
  
"This is silly," Schneider is muttering to himself, greatly irritated, as he opens the windows to let the smoke out. The mess in the pan gets dumped in the trash as well and he gets to quickly scouring the pan off with steel wool, as quick and efficient as ever. During this process he turns around fully and catches your eye - but doesn't look away nor hide from you. "remind me never to use butter again to make scrambled eggs, especially if there isn't enough of it to begin with, eh, Till? I never burnt a measly breakfast back in the army, that's for damn sure. Could have gotten a real hiding for it."  
  
You'd agree but you never went to the army, so you wouldn't know; you just shrug, turn around, and head back up the stairs.  
  
 **61\. Genderbending and the Fifth Butterfly**  
  
Your name is Herr Christoph Schneider, or Frau Christina Schneider, depending on what you're wearing. Though either way it probably doesn't matter. _Call me Christoph or Christina,_ you say. _Better still, call me Doom Schneider. It's my name._ And that's the end of it.  
  
But you're pretty no-nonsense this time around, very masculine, and female garments don't actually fit you all that well. You can slide into them but they don't look right, and when you get dressed up you look not like a slightly mannish female but a man masquerading (poorly) as a woman. It doesn't suit you at all. So when you shoot the video of Mein Teil in 2004, you play a totally different part, that of the dying victim in contrast to Till's cannibal. (Very well too, I might add.)  
  
You are most utterly definitely _Herr Schneider_ this time. _Frau_ Schneider never comes into being. Your entire existence is the fifth butterfly.  
  
 **62\. Automaton**  
  
Conscription gets to you. It really does.  
  
1984 rolls around, the year that Orwell wrote of so fearfully. You are eighteen years old, and you do your compulsory military service like a good boy; in fact, you even feel obliged to stay for a few more years than the norm. (The time you spent there might have contributed to your overt masculinity.) When you come back you are twenty-two, hardened and pretty indifferent to everything. Your exasperated girlfriend meets you and tells you that your cat gave birth to another litter, fifth time already, and it's getting out of hand. "Do something, Chris," she mumbles and goes back inside the house. You can tell she's fed up of all this, she'd rather have the cat dead - and because you're too logical to argue, you just fetch a large basin and the cat, put it in a sack and securely fasten it before dunking it fully in the water.  
  
The cat comes alive in the sack, struggling and kicking helplessly and trying to bite through. You just watch.  
Because, well, it's not as if the army teaches you to _think_. It teaches you to obey.  
  
 **63\. Happens To The Best Of Us**  
  
But then you remember the times you had with the cat; it never did anything wrong to you. Why are you killing an innocent? The fact that it's not fighting back against your hands anymore awakens you to reality and you suddenly feel horribly sick. Hurriedly, you pull the cat out of the water and out of the sack and hold it tight against your arms, screaming in your mind - _don't die, please don't die, I'm so sorry what have I done oh my God what have I **done**._  
  
"Chris?" your girlfriend is peering around the corner. "what's-"  
  
You don't answer, pushing straight past her and into your bedroom, slamming the door behind you and locking it clumsily with one hand. The cat is dazed but it's still alive, its little chest falling up and down rapidly. Not knowing what the hell else to do you turn it upside down by its hind legs; water dribbles out from its mouth and nose, staining the carpet. It lets out a little yowl; you hope that this is a good sign.  
  
Unfortunately you are too late. Its green eyes fix on your form as you hold it in your arms, filled with no resentment as they cloud over and flicker shut. It dies so peacefully and quietly that you just fall to your knees, your face buried in its soft wet fur as you start crying like a child, crying for the soul whom you have drowned, crying for your forever-destroyed innocence.  
  
That cat is the first and the last life you will ever destroy. After that, you can't even bring yourself to kill insects or vermin. And because of this, soon afterwards you leave your girlfriend and leave to West Berlin, away from the corruption that has touched you, hoping that you might be able to find yourself again.  
  
 **64\. Outside =/= Inside**  
  
You are attracted to maturity. You can't stand being near children for one. (You think). You can't stand small animals. (You think.) This is not because you hate them but rather you care for them too much to even consider going near them. For years you live with the illusion of that cat hanging over you, condemning you for what you did, making you think that you aren't fit to handle anything delicate because you're going to end up hurting it anyway. Plus, immaturity is not something you're good at dealing with. So when you move to West Berlin and start looking for roommates, you aren't exactly thinking of taking in anyone who's younger than you.  
  
The first applicant you get does not fit that bill at all. But you don't actually notice that until you see him - he's taller than you, lightly bearded, a bass slung over his back and possesses a very serious look on his face. He doesn't even drink, he tells you. When you tell him of how much the rent is and what his share is, he just nods and says "I can take care of that. If you will have me."  
  
He seems honest enough. "How old are you?"  
  
"I'm nineteen."  
  
 _Four whole years_ your junior. You drop your arms from their crossed position and stare, utterly shell-shocked, while he shifts nervously in his seat. "Is... is that... a problem?"  
  
You're tempted to tell him that it is. But then you decide to give him a chance, because rejecting someone like _this_ purely for age seems a bit too ridiculous to you. He delivers.  
  
 **65\. The Only Sane Man**  
  
You reckon that you have a complex against everybody in this hilarious clusterfuck of a band. Paul's high half the time, you wonder how his little body can take all of the weed and coke; Flake's brooding ~~half~~ all the damn time and you sometimes think he's trying to reach out to you via telepathy; Richard's trapped in a loveless marriage and you wish he'd just man up and face things head on; Olli's... well, actually, Olli's kind of cool. And you don't know what you feel about staying with your bandmates overnight because every time you do, you swear that someone keeps _burning the fucking breakfast._ Your belief that you are sane is actually a testament to the fact that you aren't, but hey, whatever goes.  
  
Till, though...  
  
"I was at this bar last night, Schneider. Drank a bit too much and then I realized we'd run out of eggs... so I went to this shop and asked for a million eggs and they gave me _six_! I might have been drunk but I can still count to a million, and _I know that it's not six_. Talk about stingy, eh?"  
  
You don't even know where to _start_  
when it comes to _this_ goddamn bastard.  
  
(But you adore all of them to bits anyway, shh.)  
  
 **66\. Carpool**  
  
You'll never figure out why Richard chooses to call you for help out of all people that night, when Till's also in New York City for the time being. But he does, and as you read the digital alarm clock display blinking eleven forty-six at night, he's frantic and almost sobbing down the phone: "Caron's left me for good."  
  
"I'm coming over," you tell him immediately, your loyalty to your friend kicking in even moreso than the urge to figure out what's actually going on.  
  
"Please, Doom. Oh my God. This is so fucked up."  
  
And indeed it is fucked up. You throw the front door of Richard's house open to find him sitting on the floor, staring ahead numbly at the wall, empty bottles and a couple of lines of coke arranged on a piece of paper. From the way it looks, he's done a line beforehand; but he doesn't seem high right now, though. Richard's gaze focuses upon you for a second - and then he stands up to stumble towards you. "What in the world have you been doing, and when did she leave?" you ask brusquely, pushing him aside and tossing away the coke in the trash.  
  
"Hey, I paid for that," he protests, but sinks into the sofa and buries his face into his hands. "three hours ago... I think... I don't know, she's packed up and left. Had her bags in the living room and everything when I came back. Just pushed those stack of divorce papers into my hand and... oh my God, how could she, Doom? Or... or, how could I, what did I do wrong, I just don't..."  
  
"Stop your bitching," you tell him sternly. Richard looks at you incredulously, and rightfully opens his mouth to protest your much-too harsh command, but you cut him off before he can do so. "Risch, do you have a plan as to what to do next?"  
  
"Doom, there really is no need to take that tone with me, I'm the one who's been ditched!"  
  
" _If you want to be helped, you've got to have some kind of idea as to what to do, you goddamn bastard._ I can't stand it when people complain about shit without a backup plan. Are you going to stay here, leave, or what?"  
  
"... I want to leave."  
  
"Fine, then, you're leaving. Get your stuff together. I'll wait here for as long as it takes."

  
 **67\. Tough Love**  
  
Herr Christoph Schneider is a callous man. Herr Christoph Schneider doesn't really know how to deal with emotions, not because he's cruel by nature but because he's afraid to feel. Herr Christoph Schneider is, however, logical enough to know that he isn't the right person when it comes to comforting people. And Richard needs a lot of comfort right now.  
  
You're smart enough and aware enough to know that your presence is not what he needs. It can only distress him even more, and you care about him too much to let yourself hurt him even more. So when he's packed up, you simply take him to where Till's staying, trusting him to take care of him better. Because your judgment of people tends to be correct at least ninety percent of the time, even though Richard at first takes this as a form of abandonment (and chews you out for it), he'll later be grateful to you. You don't know this, of course, you're just operating by what you feel is best.  
  
It does make you feel a bit envious, though, the friendship that Till and Richard share. They trust each other with everything. You can't do that anymore (so you think). When you drive off, you do find yourself smiling a little sadly at the sight of Till gently leading Richard inside, doubtless ready to share a long heart-to-heart with him.  
  
But it was a very sensible thing to do. You don't credit yourself with half the amount of selflessness that you actually have.  
  
 **68\. *Purr***  
  
Paul has a new cat. You don't find this out until you go over to his place one day - first time you set foot in his house for about two months - and a longhaired white cat hops down from the sofa before trotting straight up to you. "I didn't know you'd gotten yourself a cat," you call as the creature winds itself around your legs, feeling rather nervous as you remember what happened with the last cat you touched. Paul doesn't know about that incident and God forbid you're going to bring that up in polite conversation.  
  
"He's cute, isn't he? Adopted him from a shelter two weeks back."  
  
Throughout your visit you try to ignore the cat as much as possible. Cats are fickle creatures though, always becoming interested in the things that refuse to pay attention to them, and this one keeps batting at your leg and trying to snuggle between you and Paul during your conversation, so it's by no means an easy feat. "I think he likes being around you," Paul finally tells you around the two hour mark as he picks up the cat in his arms and sets it (much to your chagrin) right down into your lap. "I don't think he's ever been this eager to be around a new person in the house, he usually just hides in a cupboard or something. Give him a pet, why don't you?"  
  
"I..." the cat has green eyes. Green eyes exactly like the one that you drowned had. "I don't..."  
  
But the cat is warm and soft as it stretches out on your lap. Its white fur clings to your clothes but you don't care at all. Through its bright eyes you see that they're devoid of judgment, simply filled with the unconditional affection that a human-tamed cat possesses. Hesitatingly you lift up a hand and stroke its head; it purrs and licks you in response. Paul smiles next to you - and you're smiling back, you feel a warmth in your heart, you have been _forgiven._  
  
 **69\. Art Nouveau**  
  
Scene cuts back to you, Richard and Olli, in 2007. All six of you are in New York for a little break and the search for inspiration; with some disguises and a relaxed attitude, you're all left in relative peace. The fact that you six aren't going around together all the time helps; audaciousness is the best way to hide, sometimes. Till's back in the rented condo, Paul's off to a restaurant. and Flake could have come with you but he's decided to sit things out at a blues club instead. As for you three-  
  
"I don't feel good about this," Olli whispers in your ear, nudging you towards the banner of the art exhibit; multiple artists' names are printed on it, and one particular name also makes you frown. "do... do you think he noticed?"  
  
You doubt it, Richard hasn't looked anything other than his usual quiet observant self. This sentiment lasts for exactly three minutes (not enough time for you to think of an excuse to get all of you out of there) before he stops in front of one particular painting, staring - and suddenly gasping out loud as the colour drains from his face.  
  
"Risch," you whisper. "Risch, what is it?"  
  
But you know the answer already. This is a painting of a man. A very familiar man.  
A man with dark hair, and with a great many things - smooth, handsome features, nice clothes and a lovely little bullet hole through his head.  
And under the painting are three words that you never, ever thought could hurt so much while reading. The final stinger from an ex-wife: - _Richard Zven Kruspe_ -  
  
The world goes dark, and your friend slumps to the floor.  
  
 **70\. The Time When Oliver Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you peer around the corner into the little kitchen. Olli's standing there, looking almost comical in a white apron (because of his height, his truly incredible height) and holding a pan just above the stove. He's considerably more agitated than you've ever seen him before; the pan's blackened and it looks like he was making pancakes or something, there's a bowl filled with flour mixture on the counter. You're not actually too surprised because when it comes to making simple foods, Olli's surprisingly talented in screwing it up. Something about concentration.  
  
"I realize that you're probably going to laugh at me later, Till," he says without looking around, making you tense in the doorway. "but Risch is with me, he's on the sofa, and I just wanted to make something for him. He's in pretty damn bad shape. Watch over him, would you?"  
  
You never had any intention of laughing at Olli. You were actually going to ask how the hell he gained access to the condo without you noticing, with another person in tow nonetheless, but what he said concerns you more than that. You turn and run towards the living room.  
  
 **71\. Confrontation**  
  
Your name is Oliver Riedel, and you're kind of really pissed off right now. When Till leaves for the living room, you finish washing up and toss the washcloth into the sink with an unusual hostility before walking outside onto the balcony (shutting the doors behind you for privacy). From your pockets you fish out Richard's phone and flick it open, going to contacts and searching for that one name. You have no idea if she's still available on that number, but you have to try. Finding it within a few seconds, you press 'call' without hesitation and hold the phone to your ear.  
  
"Hello."  
  
" _Hallo, Frau Bernstein,_ " you speak, hearing her inhale sharply at the other end. "this is Oliver Riedel. I'm aware of the fact that I'm not particularly welcomed around you, and neither would the presence of my bandmates, especially that of your ex-husband. And believe me, I wouldn't have dreamt of calling you under most circumstances, if not for the fact that you appear to be holding unusual grudges against Richard."  
  
She is silent for a long time. "Where are you calling from?" she finally asks.  
  
"New York."  
  
"You went to see the exhibition."  
  
"Yes. Unfortunately. He'd found the painting before we could get him out of there."  
  
"Well, what a pity," she responds, but her voice is blank and devoid of such emotion. "but you do have to understand, my ex-husband was not my target audience. It was simple misfortune. It was also a honest reflection of what I felt for him during our marriage; an artist cannot be blamed for being honest, Mr. Riedel."  
  
"Not if you're conveying pure hatred."  
  
"He was not quite as a good husband as you seem to believe," she tells you quietly. "there is only so much cheating and lack of direction that you can take. Let us practice some freedom of artistic belief; you believe in what you want, Mr. Riedel, and I will trust in my own experience."  
  
There are a million things that you want to say to Caron Bernstein right now and none of those things are positive. But at her words suddenly your conviction in Richard is shaken, and you become aware that she is right; you simply have no right to tell this woman that her suffering didn't matter. That isn't your place, or anyone else's. Even if you could, if you had a shred of basic decency you still wouldn't do it, because she's the ex-wife of one of your best friends. Even if that friend has been subjected to so much shock that he can barely speak or react to people at the moment.  
  
So you simply say a terse goodbye and hang up. Delete her number once and for all from Richard's phone too - when he comes around, he'll be grateful to you for it. Now perhaps both parties can exist in peace.  
  
 **72\. The Sixth Butterfly**  
  
You are sixteen years old when you head into the shop to buy your first bass; an electric-blue one catches your eye. However, its price is a little too out of your league; there's a slimmer bass right next to it that you like the look of, black-bodied and just affordable for you. You contemplate buying it; but then walk out of the shop, determined to work another month or two and come back. Being able to connect to your instrument is very important, and you just get good vibes around that one. And sure enough, within two months the blue bass is in your possession.  
  
That's all it is. The sixth. You could have had the blue or the black bass guitar, and you chose blue. What, were you expecting anything particularly earth-shattering?  
  
 **73\. With You/Without You**  
  
You are the one of the first ones to pick out the fact that Richard and Till might have something more than friendship between them. Flake is the first to confront Till about this and he knew far earlier than you did; however, Richard's marriage gets in the way of that thought for a few years. When it's over, you are the first to tell Richard that he ought to make a move.  
  
The realization comes during filming 'Ohne Dich', fittingly enough. Richard usually likes having a prominent role in a music video; he was like that with 'Ich Will', 'Sonne', pretty much all of them. Not this one. He deliberately turns away when the scripting for the video is being worked on, saying that he wants to stay in the background. "Are you sure, Risch?" the director asks, who finds this just as odd as you do.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"We're not asking that you drop Till or anything-" he spins around and there's a sudden flash of what looks vaguely like terror and anger in his eyes. "-but this isn't like you."  
  
"Just _let it go,_ all right?"  
  
You can't possibly know that Richard wants to avoid taking a major role in this because the storyline of the music video hits too close to home for him for reasons that he cannot quite comprehend himself; but somewhere, far, far back (maybe beyond the timeline of this earth?), he experienced _something_ like this. You _all_ did. He just remembers it more because it affected him more than anyone else; but either way during filming you see how Richard looks almost shell-shocked as he smokes and stares into the distance during breaks, how he looks really out of it (uncharacteristically so) for most of it, and figure out that he is physically incapable of facing the death of Till, even if it's not real. Richard keeps very close to Till most of the time, supporting him from behind whenever you all have to go higher up, and during the time you're on that mountain he completely loses his capacity to joke about anything.  
  
You notice that, and then you figure out that Richard feels more than friendly affection for him.  
  
"Why don't you just tell him?" you whisper when you're all coming back in the tour bus and everyone else is asleep; he starts and gives you a wild-eyed look. "it was obvious to me. I'm aware that this scenario was different to what we did before, but it wasn't so much that it would have affected you like this - not unless..."  
  
He's silent for a long time. "I can't lose him," he finally whispers back. He means a lot by that.  
  
He doesn't want Till dead or being left alone by him. He doesn't want to alienate Till by confessing. A cruel double bind.  
  
 **74\. Inferiority Complex**  
  
As previously mentioned, you're very conscious of the fact that a lot of people that you deal with regularly are older than you. At this point in time you're thirty-six and 'young' isn't exactly the right word to describe you, but you're the youngest in the band and to you that overrides most things. This is a part of a rather distressing inferiority complex that you possess - you're taller than most people, sturdier, and your bass and guitar skills would stand up well against most world-class players. But at the same time you are younger than your friends, you never had much to complain about when you were little - when Till was struggling to survive with his newborn daughter in tow, you were only in school for God's sake - and you quite often feel like you lack the adequate experience that would put you on a truly even field with the rest of your friends. You're also quite a shy man really, which doesn't help all that much.  
  
You probably wouldn't have agreed to join the band so quickly had it not been for Richard. He shares the same complex that you do, except possibly in a more crippling way because he tends to vent his own fear by overworking or becoming overly dependent on something. Bottom line, you're _very_ protective of Richard, and as you start on a new (and more successful batch) of pancakes, you find yourself being still very pissed off at what's happened to him. The man isn't a saint, but surely he could be given a break now and then.  
  
There's Till to help him, though. You can hear them in the living room right now, conversing. "I didn't know that she was exhibiting her art there," Richard's saying hoarsely. "and I... I never thought-"  
  
"That was beyond the line," Till says in response. "but I'm going to ask that you try to forget about this, Richard. It's beyond our control. What's fighting with your ex-wife about that going to solve?"  
  
You're almost tempted to burst in and tell them that what Caron did could qualify as harassment, but then - again - remember that you don't know anything about what their married life was like in the first place. This is not your place to interfere. Till knows it better than you do, Richard does as well. "You're right," Richard murmurs. Silence. "I'm... I'm just... shocked, that's all."  
  
"Perfectly understandable. But none of us think any less of you for this. If you remember nothing else, keep that in mind."  
  
Then nothing more is said from either of them. You imagine that Richard and Till are just sitting together in comfortable, shared silence, just letting the mutual shock wear off. He's in good hands, at least. Till can take care of him better than you could. You might have felt inferior because of this any other day, but considering the circumstances, it's really the best thing.  
  
 **75\. All This Overcapitalization Is Getting To Me**  
  
And I don't mean in the financial definition of overcapitalization either. Say, have a little list of people who ought to be beaten.  
  
1\. Totalitarian assholes.  
2\. People who capitalize every word in their sentence with no insanely good reason to do so.  
3\. People who write lists telling you who ought to be beaten.  
  
Back to the story. Hey, I've been speaking for six people and a little more so far. I deserve to be heard too.  
  
 **76\. No, You're Wrong, Don't Say it-**  
  
Back to Till for a brief moment. It's a bit of an uncomfortable time to go back to Till, but over ten years of being Rammstein and you still have to deal with this shit and it's probably important to make it known that you hate it. "Keep going, you awesome motherfuckers! For all I can see you might as well be the new _S-_ "  
  
The moment you hear the _full word_ something in you snaps, and you punch the smirking so-called fan straight in the face. (Olli tells you that you were screaming ' _Shut up! Just shut up!_ ' later on, and you don't doubt him for an instant.)  
  
The man is led away and Olli holds you back, along with Paul, telling you to _calm down_ , just _let it be_ \- but you honestly can't. That _word_ rings in your ears and you frown for the entire day. All because some bastard decided Germany was Germany.  
  
 **77\. The Third Reich Sings To You**  
  
Till.  
  
Oh, Till.  
  
 _I'm not going away._  
  
 **78\. Definition: History**  
  
"Don't feel bad about it," Paul is telling him when you're all back safe and sound in the condo. "Till, just relax. There will always be idiots in the world."  
  
Till doesn't want to listen and just storms to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. "I'll check on him," Richard says, and follows suit before any one of you can stop him; before long you are left alone with Schneider, Paul and Flake. After a moment of silence, you all decide that you're perhaps better off leaving them alone for the time being; putting your jackets and sunglasses on again, you quietly make your way to a downstairs bar, settling yourself heavily onto the bar stools.  
  
"I hate it whenever this happens," Schneider mutters into his Mojito; he plucks out the slice of lime and mangles it into pieces, a clear sign that he's disturbed or upset. "I know what you said about there always being idiots but it's 2007. It's been over sixty years. You'd think after all this time and all the things Germany did to eradicate-"  
  
"There's no point in complaining," you cut him off with uncharacteristic bitterness. "that's just how it is and how it's going to be for a long time. After all, what's history. Just one fucking thing after another."  
  
 **79\. The One Good Thing That Happened As A Result Of All This Fiasco, Which Was Made Known To You When You All Returned From The Bar To Find The Two Of Them Amending Flight Bookings Back To Berlin And Richard Raised His Head And Turned To You And Said (Much To Your Collective Relief): ' _I Think That I'm Going To Be Living With ---- From Now On, Guys, So Let's Celebrate My Newfound Sanity And Direction In Life._ '**  
  
(PS. He meant Till.)  
  
 **80\. The Time When Nele Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen. You're terribly shocked to find your young daughter standing in front of the stove, coughing hard into her apron. When she catches your eye, she stares at you in a guilty way for only a few seconds before rushing out of the kitchen, terribly ashamed that her efforts to cook you both something ended in vain.  
  
You turn the stove off and judge the damage. It's not that bad, the charring will scrub off. From the bowl of white batter sitting by the side you assume that she was trying to make pancakes; putting that in the fridge for later, you clean the rest of the kitchen and then go to comfort your daughter. She's in her room, hiding beneath the covers, shyly poking her head out when you knock and open the door.  
  
"Don't be afraid to wake me up next time, darling," you tell her, and she shifts a little, looking guilty.  
  
"You're not angry, _Vatti?_ "  
  
"I'm not the slightest bit angry," Nele smiles in relief, and you find yourself smiling back.  
  
 **81\. At Last**  
  
Your name is Nele Lindemann. It's an unusual name, but you love it because your father chose to name you that way, and your father made the perfect judgment. It's a bit of a pity that when you were growing up, people were less interested in your first name and more on the other one; from the age of nine onwards you were never exactly 'Nele' but 'Nele Lindemann', your father's daughter. This was met with a variety of reactions including wonder, envy and vague disgust from people who found your father's lyrics and poetry and questionable stage antics, well, questionable.  
  
But you stuck it out. You've been very lucky that way, that your father was always protective of you. No one could accuse him of neglect. In fact it probably went the other way around, in that sometimes he was too protective of you; even when you were old enough to leave university and live on your own. You've wished for quite some time now that he would take care of himself more than you - you're older now, more responsible, and it's time that he lived for himself. Your father's lack of a love life has become more obvious to you over the years, and while you've never confronted him on it (because that would be weird), you've always felt somewhat guilty for it.  
  
No longer, though. When you drop in to visit him in his apartment one day, you see much to your surprise that your Uncle Richard is there. He and your father are sitting together on the bed. He looks like he's been _living_ there for quite a few weeks, actually. You have to wonder why your father never informed you of this development, but the pieces fall into place soon enough as the man reaches over and gently grasps his hand in his own. A little startled gaze - but your father soon squeezes his hand back, and they smile at each other.  
  
Well. It was about time. You were starting to get antsy, thinking that you were the only one who could see the chemistry between the two. Pleased with yourself, you quietly slip back out and head out for an iced coffee.  
  
 **82\. Children Say The Most Painful Things**  
  
" _Vatti?_ I don't know if it's true but is Rammstein a [----] band?"  
  
It was just an innocent question, but you made your father unhappy. Very, very unhappy in fact. You should have known better, you were eleven at that point.  
  
 _Bad, bad child. I'm very disappointed in you._  
  
Losing your father's love is the worst thing you can imagine. You make sure never to bring it up again.  
  
 **83\. - _Shut Up!_**  
  
"- _Schutzstaffel._ "  
  
 **84\. Forgiveness Is The Most Elusive Art**  
  
Over the years you've had very little to complain about your father's treatment of you. Your father's always given you everything you needed; in another world perhaps he'd have been more absent, but his love for you is absolute across all universes, and you've been a very lucky young girl, that's for certain. But he's not free of his own conflicts, either. You watch your father struggle with his feelings towards his own father. It's not the most pleasant sight to see. None of this is a particularly clear memory to you, but you're sure that you've never really met your grandfather in person; that perhaps your father kept him away from you. From what you know, Herr Werner Lindemann wasn't exactly a nice person to his children.  
  
You've never seen your grandfather's grave. Your father hasn't either. Neither of you have also seen the memorial that your relatives and the admirers of his books put up recently somewhere near the Austrian border; you yourself don't feel much like going, but what does your father think of the idea? Of course you're not going to bring that up to his face, doing that's a good way to enforce sullen silence in him for days at a time. But you leave a brochure of the area and a photo of the memorial on his desk, wanting to know his opinion on things. You'll do as your father wants to do.  
  
His reaction is to pick up the photo, frown at it - stare outside as if he can see the Alps and _Großglockner_ in front of him - and then toss both items in the trash with a snort as if to convey: _no, this is the stupidest idea ever, definitely not worth risking a neck over._ Secretly, you're relieved. That's that pitfall avoided, that your grandfather might unwittingly take your father with him.  
  
 **85\. Privacy**  
  
Nele is admittedly very quiet and discreet when she slips out of the apartment, but as she leaves she forgets that she's left her untied scarf by the door. When you emerge with Richard from the bedroom after that particular lyrics discussion and a brief hand-holding, you notice the garment and recognize it instantly. So does Richard too, actually.  
  
"Is that...?" you nod grimly. "... ah."  
  
Looks like you're going to have to install new locks and go through an awkward explaining session with your daughter.  
  
 **86\. Feather Light**  
  
Richard has been living with you for two months when he finally makes his move. You yourself have been feeling rather odd about suddenly housing him as well - not in the sense that you mind, but rather what Flake said years before coming back to haunt you again. _Richard has a crush on you,_ he said; you had no reason to think that this was true when Richard was married, but recently that belief's taken a real blow. The way he wants your approval for a lot of things, constantly wanting to prove himself competent and making himself a wanted presence around the place - yes, all signs point to a devoted affection of some kind.  
  
When he makes his move, you're writing something and he's sitting by your desk. Suddenly he turns around, staring right into your eyes, pushing away the lyric sheets with one hand and leveling his face with yours. "I should like very much to kiss you," he says, and pauses only for a second before resuming. "would you mind that terribly, Till?"  
  
You think you're hallucinating so you don't answer, staring at him instead. But when he repeats his question, cheeks turning pink with effort (but his voice still calm and steady, much to his credit), you realize that he's serious and feel rather as if someone's hit you right over the head with a pillow. Dumbstruck, you answer honestly that if he wouldn't mind kissing you, you don't see why you should protest, but he ought to be warned that you're very out of practice seeing as you've never focused very much on relationships or kissing or anything like that and that he be not disappointed if your skills turn out subpar, which they probably are. You probably would ramble indefinitely in this manner if not for the fact that Richard just cuts you off with the feather-softness of his lips capturing your own. Without even realizing it, your eyes flutter shut at the contact; it's not quite a kiss of passion, but rather one that's long, sweet and soft. Very unusual coming from Richard out of all people.  
  
You sit there, being kissed by him and kissing him back, for what feels like hours. When Richard pulls back for breath, you see that his pupils are dilated with pleasure; he licks his lips somewhat absent-mindedly before focusing his gaze on you again. "I like you," he murmurs hoarsely. "I have for the longest time."  
  
"I'm... I'm flattered," is all you can say in response before he bends forward and kisses you again. This time you even find the will in you to wrap your arms around his waist, making him groan into the kiss; it's easy at first, just to cling onto each other like this. But you are both men, still fairly potent men at that, and when arousal catches you both unawares, the gentleness quickly turns to primal urgency. Your starved body against his, seeking a subconscious conquest, of the physical comfort that you have denied yourself for so long; but at the same time, you being so afraid, even when Richard pulls you clumsily to your feet and leads you into the bedroom.  
  
 **87. _Beim Ersten Mal; Tut's Immer Weh_**  
  
When Richard tugs you down onto the bed and straddles you, panting with lust and love, you keep your eyes firmly shut. It's not that you don't want to see him; but you are afraid, more afraid than you can possibly let on to him. You haven't slept with anyone in years, much less with a man at any point in your life. Knowing how something works and actually putting it into action is not the same thing, especially when it comes to sex.  
  
"I don't know..." you whisper to him, eyes closed, your body nevertheless burning beneath his touch. "I don't _know,_ Richard, how would I..."  
  
"Will you trust me not to hurt you?" he murmurs in your ear; you don't know if you actually do, but you don't want to ruin the mood so you just swallow and nod. He's kissing you all over, hands running over your muscles, down your torso and arms and legs. It's a new sensation to you, being the one to be pleasured like this, especially seeing as you haven't had carnal relations with anyone for so long - you feel almost intoxicatingly helpless, feeling Richard touching you and caressing your nipples beneath his rough fingertips, and you're more aroused and frightened than you can possibly imagine. Then he moves down to kiss your aching hardness through your boxers and runs his tongue down your thigh, and you moan out loud in response - only to cut it short, mortified at sounding so unmanly.  
  
He takes it as a good sign, though. "I want to take you," Richard whispers as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your boxers and tugs it off; you nod and roll over, grasping the sheets and getting on your hands and knees. All this, despite the fact that you're dreading the pain. "No... I want to see your face, Till..."  
  
He rolls you onto your back again, spreading your legs and lifting them up; he's incredibly hard, he wants to be inside you, and you again clench your eyes shut because you're so overwhelmed that you don't even know what you feel.  
  
But Richard can read your fear and hesitation in your face, and because he is a decent human being, he looks at you for a long moment - and pulls away from you, settling down beside your body instead. You blink down at him in confusion as he's carefully nuzzling into your chest, pulling the covers around you both and planting reassuring kisses on your skin. "Richard - why-"  
  
"You're not ready," he says. Your attempts to convince him otherwise are quelled when he silences you with a kiss. "I can see that, Till. I'm sorry. It was hasty of me... but if it's all right with you, can we... just share sleep?"  
  
That's not exactly new to you, so you say yes and allow him to snuggle into your body as he has done so many times before. But you don't sleep well at all, even with Richard by your side. He falls asleep relatively quickly - well, at least that shows that he's genuinely happy to just share your warmth - and that leaves you to muse throughout the night until the beginnings of dawn streak your walls in pale blue. What you feel for Richard has been mostly been expressed in the simple word, 'friendship', so far. Not because you have only ever felt friendship with him, but until now you hadn't needed other words to painstakingly detail every single emotion you felt for him. And now he's kissing you and saying that he loves you and that he wants to have sex with you - all beyond what 'friendship' should entail, at the purest definition of the word.  
  
But does that repel you? No. You honestly can't say that it does. After all, weren't you aroused just as much as he was? Didn't you want him too, ignoring the unease and fear that also came with the package? As you're contemplating this Richard stirs a little, rubbing at his eyes, having waken up after two sleep cycles as he sometimes ends up doing. Normally he just burrows deeper into the blankets and goes back to sleep, but when he sees that you're awake, he gives you a little nervous smile - your bodies rub lightly against each other and you tense a little at feeling his morning hard-on brushing against your leg.  
  
"Oh," he mumbles, and pulls away. "I'm sorry..."  
  
And then  you know what to do. "Don't be," you say as you reach out and hold him. At first it's a mere embrace, but soon you move your hands lower down, grasping at his hips and tugging him close until your erections are pressed together; he gasps in response but doesn't withdraw. "I think..." you murmur in his ear before you roll on your back and pull him on top of your body.  
  
"I think... I want to try again."  
  
 **88\. Morning After**  
  
The first cry from your lips and the first tear of pain that escapes your eyes, Richard savours both. He kisses your mouth ever so gently, putting balm on the pain of intrusion, and when you're silent he kisses away your tears and whispers _trust me, Till, please trust me, relax, I want to make you feel good_ \- and even though it's difficult, you force yourself to relax. Because while you don't trust yourself, you trust Richard.  
  
So you cling onto him with an uncharacteristic dependence, tightening your legs around his waist, staring into his blue eyes and seeing the love in them - and before long you are rocking in rhythm with him, moaning out loud, lost in pleasure that you don't quite understand. It's a blessing that Richard is gentle and completely respectful; he knows you so well, he knows that for all of your masochistic tendencies and masculine demeanor, it would be very easy to hurt you, break your spirit beyond repair. But here he is, steering you, throwing his figurative anchor in your figurative sea and seeking to understand and possess you. As you grasp him tight and cry out, digging your nails into his back as your climax shudders through your body, you acknowledge that he's succeeded.  
  
Neither of you bother cleaning up before you drift back into a dazed sleep. It's way past your usual wake-up time when you finally open your eyes - the clock is ticking eleven and Richard is still by your side, also awake but looking somewhat shy and vulnerable. He throws you a slightly furtive glance and lowers his eyes, fearful that now that the lustful passion has been dissipated, you might not desire him any more. You feel a _lot_ of things, but - still, that's not the case at all. "How are you feeling?" you ask.  
  
"Still terribly in love with you, I'm afraid," Richard says gravely. You look at him and pull him close, letting your shoulder be his pillow.  
  
"Then we can be afraid together," you answer softly before you bend down - hesitate - and much to Richard's wide-eyed delight, kiss him on the forehead.  
  
 **89\. On The Fifth Day Of Christmas...**  
  
So that's how it is. You and Richard have consummated this strange relationship you have. For months on end, this is how the two of you carry on - acting as flatmates, working together, sleeping together regularly. You're still a bit nervous about it because years' worth of nervousness and celibacy doesn't just evaporate in a matter of months, but under Richard's care you think you're getting better.  
  
You can't quite bring yourself to say that you love him, mainly because you don't know love and you have no desire to say such a thing when you don't even know for sure. Richard is kind and understanding, though. Just the fact that you're allowing his affection and returning it is more than enough for him, and he's simply content to let the time flow by, to teach you, help you regain more of your self-confidence day by day. And really - shouldn't you do something to commemorate that? Shouldn't you at least acknowledge in some physical memento, even if you can't voice it as 'love', that Richard means a lot to you?  
  
One day you steal one of his rings and take it to a jeweler to measure it, replacing it soon afterwards. Within two weeks you ask him if he wants to go out for dinner; he accepts delightfully, and soon you're sitting in a restaurant and chatting to one another, completely relaxed in each other's presence. For once you've mustered up your courage, actively engaging Richard in conversation and even being audacious enough to hold his hand in public. He seems a little surprised, but ecstatic that the shell around you has been cracked just a little.  
  
You then proceed to take it a step further by taking him on a long evening stroll around the streets of Berlin, before taking him into the Tiergarten, up to a foot bridge - and then handing him a little box in a drawstring bag. "What's this?" he asks, and you just tell him to open it.  
  
When he does and sees what's inside, he gasps in shock - before throwing his arms around your neck and kissing you with all the passion at he can muster, whispering between breaths: _Till, Till, oh mein Gott, I didn't expect... God, I love you._ Your response is to simply slip the ring onto his finger before sealing your affections with a kiss on his left hand. It's not Christmas, sure, but at least the basic idea is the same.  
  
 **90\. The Time When He Burnt Breakfast**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; there's a smell drifting through the air, ashy, thick with smoke and almost tangibly delicious. A disastrous combination. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen.  
  
The smoke is uncannily thick this time, and you have to frown and wave it away before you can even look at whoever's there. And then you see... Schneider? Richard? No, no...  
  
Yourself. Your young and freshly-independent self, holding onto a frying pan. You rush forward and smack your own arm away from the pan, throwing it into the sink with a clatter loud enough to wake the entire house, feeling a sickening sensation almost like that of something dead rolling over in your stomach. You look at you in confusion, green eyes filled with fear as you cower from yourself and mumble that you were - you were just trying to get yourself some breakfast, that was all, _don't be mad, please, please don't be mad, don't hit me, I'm so sorry, I won't do it again._  
  
Lindemann in his forties versus Lindemann in his twenties. You stare down at yourself and realize the truth that you've been running from so long: you are your father's son, after all.  
  
Horrified, you back away and run up the stairs.  
  
 **91\. Samsara**  
  
The day when your muse deserts you once and for all is the day that you realize that you're in a loop.  
  
It might be an odd realization to have, and it's difficult to explain - but when you're sitting with a blank sheet of paper in front of you, thinking of dozens of ideas and trusting them to eventually become words on your page, you suddenly feel a sharp pain in your heart. Your first reaction is to gasp and drop the pen onto the floor, and your second reaction only a half-second afterwards is to sit back and let the realization that you will never write a poem again wash over you. You just know instinctively without linking any of this to a heart attack or anything - because you can swear that you have lived through this moment in your life countless times over, and that you've always ended up losing your muse after the pain.  
  
And that within five or six years from that point, your life always ended through whatever means. Perhaps you became so depressed at losing such an essential part of yourself that you inhaled a bottle of wine along with a dozen pills and died in the bathtub. Perhaps you jumped from your window. Perhaps you fell off a cliff shortly after losing your muse, through completely unrelated means. You don't know for sure, because there is no way that you can remember previous lives - is that even a thing? - but your conviction tells you that it is true.  
  
Is there a repetition taking place? A never-ending cycle? You don't know, but by the ache in your body, you can feel that you don't have much time left before you expire.  
  
 **92. _Piriform_**  
  
If you really think about it, though, you maybe ought to have seen it coming from the _sheer extent_ of the things in your life that have turned out badly.  
  
You didn't learn to love anybody except your mother and your dearest daughter until now. Your self-confidence went to hell, though, and will likely never recover. And your relationship with Richard is not one that can ever bloom in marriage or anything like that, even though the two of you have come up with a sort of substitute for it. The sense of failure is especially high because - because, again, you think you remember times when you weren't like this. You have no idea what happened to those alternate-universe Till Lindemanns, but if you're indeed in a loop - it can't have been good for them, either. What chance do you have right now with the kind of being you've become?  
  
A failed session. So much you went through, and yet it's a failed session, you can feel it within the capture, the rapture, the rupture of your soul.  
  
 **93\. Inevitability**  
  
Death is kind of a cheap thing, really, if you think about it. Nothing to get upset over. Why even as you read and contemplate this, you're dying.  
  
 _But I'm not,_ you might say.  
I say: of course you're dying. We're _all_ dying.  
Unto this life we are born, pathetic and helpless, slow dying. Where the devil else would you be heading, if you weren't, may I ask?  
  
 **94\. Acceptance, The Final Stage**  
  
"What are you thinking about?" Richard murmurs in your ear by sunset, your nude bodies fitting perfectly against each other. You've stayed in bed for almost twenty-four hours, forgoing meals and making love on and off all day; a splendorous day for men of your age to be enjoying, for sure. You don't answer, just kissing him softly on the lips and tickling him ever so gently until he squirms and chuckles.  
  
You're thinking of the loop and you don't want to upset Richard by mentioning that. You doubt he'd understand. But there's more than just that on your mind as well - together you stare at the sunset outside the window, bright and exquisite, bathing you both in its beautiful glow. Stroking your lover's body gently with one hand, you see that he's almost falling asleep; taking advantage of it, you lower your head and suckle softly at the skin around the back of his neck, applying just enough pressure to let the blood rise to the surface and leave a small, perfect love-bite there. "Ahh," Richard moans in pleasure, ever so submissive and yet so bold in your embrace. You do nothing else, though, and just hold him afterwards.  
  
The sunset is red, red as blood, you note to yourself - red as the blood pumping through your veins, the light bruises all over your and Richard's body. Red as being. You wonder if he's noticed. "Richard?" you murmur softly in his ear, but he's already asleep - as the sky outside darkens and the first of the starts come out, you watch the dying glow of the day bathing his body in the colour of life. You become hyperaware of your heartbeat, beating in sync with Richard's, and his body next to you being responsible for such emotions - breathing ever so softly, up and down, up and down.  
  
You feel something ache fondly in your heart because only Richard could make a simple rhythm of life so artistic. He is your muse of Creation.  
  
Then at that moment, watching your lover sleeping, you decide that you don't care about the shadow of death hanging over you.  
Let it come when it feels like it, but until then, you're going to live life to the fullest.  
  
 **95\. German Loyalty Is Forever**  
  
It really is. Takes a bloody long time to develop, but it is so worth it. You don't need to look any further than your five bandmates to understand that.  
  
Fate has linked you together, and even though Fate is a fickle lady, you can't help but think that she made the perfect match just that one time. They are your everything now.  
  
 **96. _Reise, Reise_**  
  
This will likely be Rammstein's final tour. You all gather in Berlin-Tegel and wait for your flight; it's delayed somewhat, though, due to bad weather. "I don't like the look of this," Paul comments as he stares outside at the rain and thunder. "there's no way that any plane will be allowed to take off in that. Looks like we might have to spend a night here-"  
  
"-Boarding now, Flight 123 from Berlin... please come to Gate number 20..."  
  
"-Speak of the devil!" he laughs as he dusts his hands and gets up, tugging his bags along and taking the lead. "well, at least that's fortunate. I'm looking forward to a long rest in the plane, aren't you?"  
  
Olli and Schneider murmur in the affirmative, while Flake remains his silent enigmatic self. You and Richard share smiles; this is going to be okay, after all, what's the worst that could happen with all your friends by your side?  
  
 **97\. The Sound of Thunder**  
  
Let's revise this a little, shall we? Till didn't learn to love romantically until at this point in his life. ( _Eins._ ) Paul actively sought to go to the army and got turned down. ( _Zwei._ ) Flake actually confirmed that yes, he was part of Rammstein, and no, he wouldn't leave. ( _Vier._ ) Schneider didn't want to crossdress. ( _Fünf._ ) And Olli at some point chose the blue bass instead of a black one. ( _Sechs._ ) But out of all those, the third ( _Drei._ ) was the most significant. Richard never experienced fatherhood in this universe. Because of that, Khira Li never calls you while you're all at the airport, telling you that she's in the hospital for a concussion; if that had been allowed to happen the entire band would have turned up to take care of her and bring her back home, the concerts be damned.  
  
But that doesn't happen, so nothing stops you from getting on that plane.  
  
All very _minor,_ isn't it? All very _insignificant,_ isn't it? But without all those little anomalies, your lives wouldn't have turned out this way. The butterfly effect was fully in place. Flake and Richard became closer than ever - Till and Richard fell in love - Paul laid Schneider's guilt to rest - Olli became the glue binding all of you together. That's why we didn't call those anomalies 'mistakes'. Because they weren't mistakes. There was nothing that any of you did 'wrong' by any means. No, it's just a simple series of events that changed the course of your story in seemingly-insignificant ways until it came to this, six butterflies crushed under the heel of coincidence.  
  
Ah well. Better luck next time.  
At least all six of you go together this time around.  
  
 **98\. Hold Your Breath**  
  
Fuck assuming the safety position. The moment the engines fail you unstrap your seatbelt and turn around to face your right, pulling Richard close to your chest and kissing him, wanting to give him even the faintest chance of survival by shielding him with your body. (It's strange, but you can almost remember a timeline when you died on top of _Großglockner_ and left him alone to grieve - not reconciling with your father was the best thing to do, really.) His eyes lock with yours - and in that brief moment before the plane goes down, you look at him and need him, want him, _love_ him a lifetime, and God _damn_ you if you aren't going to admit that at the very least, because to love another is to see the face of God.  
  
 **99\. Replay - > Charlie/Victor/Romeo -> Rewind**  
  
 **18:26:25**  
 _CA: All hydraulics failed._  
  
 **18:56:05**  
 _Captain: Raise nose.  
Captain: Raise nose.  
Captain: Power._  
 **18:56:14** _GPWS Sink rate; pull up - pull up, pull up, pull up_  
 **18:56:19**  
 _Captain: URV GPWS Pull up pull up_  
 **18:56:23** _GPWS PULL UP PULL UP_  
  
( **18:56:26** _mayday_  
  
 **18:56:32:** _We're going down_  
 **18:56:36:** _Mama, I love you._ )  
  
 **-click-  
  
100\. The Time When...**  
  
When you wake up, you grimace in disgust; but then you realize that you have no reason to grimace in disgust. Nothing smells like it's burning this time, although you are certain that there is someone in the kitchen making something. Sliding the covers off your body, you put on a dressing gown before you silently pad downstairs to look into the kitchen.  
  
What you're greeted with a sight that you never would have imagined. Sitting at the kitchen table are Flake, Paul, Schneider and Olli; Flake's reading a newspaper and Paul has his cat on his lap while the latter two are talking amongst themselves. When they see you, they immediately greet you with a wave and a large grin. Bewildered, you nod at them in acknowledgement and look into the kitchen to see - Richard? Could it be?  
  
Dark hair, elegant features, blue eyes and a collar around his neck. It is Richard - how, but how? But it doesn't matter; you rush forwards, euphoria coursing through your veins, stopping just short of embracing him for fear that he might end up burning himself. Richard looks at you, smiles at you softly - lazily - and then says: "Till, sweetheart, you're _dead._ "  
  
"I know," but you don't feel upset about that at all. None of your bandmates seem unhappy about it, either. Now that you're looking around, you can see that this is not your house - it's merely a vision of it, the boundaries fading away into white in the far distance, lighting up and becoming defined only when you step forwards. It goes on forever, as far as you can see. "it feels familiar."  
  
"That's because we've been here a lot of times," Flake says without even looking up from the newspaper. His usual self; pretty chipper for a dead man, that's for sure. You have to wonder what kind of news there might feasibly be in this place, but that's a question that doesn't matter for the time being. "so. What's your opinion on this session?"  
  
"Null," Paul says, gesturing towards Richard. "without Khira Li, there could have been no good ending. And Doom wasn't half the fruit that he could have been, either. Speaking of that, hold my cat for a bit, will you? Shedding all over the place again."  
  
"Strange to think that my gender identity made such a big difference this time around!" Schneider laughs, and accepts the cat, tickling it on its soft white belly. "there you are, sweetheart. But at least I made peace with cats in the end, right? I'm fairly certain there was at least one timeline where I just ended up being the epitome of being hated by animals for the rest of my short life."  
  
Olli leans back on his seat with a sigh. "Well, what's done is always done, that's what I say. I'm always up for another go. What about you, Till?"  
  
"Is there any other way out?"  
  
Flake looks at you over his glasses, and gives you a gentle smile. "We could all stay here, too," he says, his voice soft and serene. "the world is quiet and we're together in this place; I don't know about you, but admittedly, nothing is exactly _lacking_ here. The boundaries could use some work, but anywhere we want to go, it'll just create itself around us. Nothing's making us re-live our lives all over again."  
  
You let out a 'hmm' in response. "And if we choose to neither stay here or go back? Where would that take us then?"  
  
"On," he answers simply.  
  
Musing on this for a while, you look around your surroundings again. You imagine that this is some sort of limbo that you have to consciously choose to move onto whatever afterlife there might be or try again with life before you can leave it. It's not uncomfortable to be in, by any means - but it feels very familiar. This is far from your first time being here; who knows how many timelines you have gone through? Every repetition has brought forth misery and mistakes and even though it always balances out, you're not sure if you want to inflict this more upon your friends and yourself.  
  
What is a happy ending? What are you seeking for? A natural death? Of old age, content and surrounded by loved ones?  
  
"Going at the right time, I suppose," Richard answers for you as if he's read your mind. "so! What's your choice this time? Try again or move on?"  
  
You tap your fingers on the tabletop and look at him. He's looking back at you with that utterly perfect smile on his lips - oh, how you love him, even in death - and you don't know what to say to his question. Do you want to reset the clock and put him through all that pain again? "What is even the right time, Richard? I just don't know anymore."  
  
"That's what we're trying to figure out."  
  
"But it's always so long and we always forget all the previous sessions. Is it worth it, when it's ended like this so many times?"  
  
"We learn, though," Schneider nods, patting you on your shoulder. "we don't remember, but we learn something and recall it whenever we're heading too close to a scenario that we know can only end in disaster. We learnt not to go near the Alps to seek your father, we learnt that your self-confidence needs building up a lot more quicker if we're to succeed... and seeing as we're all together right now, having died at the same time, I think we've done much better this time around. How many times have one of us died and left the other five in turmoil, now?"  
  
You don't know, but you have to agree with Schneider. That way, you make up your mind.  
  
"Okay. Let's do it. Let's go back."  
  
"That's the spirit," Richard laughs from the kitchen. "we were just waiting for you to say that. All of us confirmed that we wanted to try again, too. We've come this far over so many repetitions. Giving up now would be kind of a cop-out, don't you think?"  
  
"We better land in the correct time period, though. There was the one where we got dropped off in 14th century Germany or whatever and got turned into werewolves, wasn't there?" Olli laughs. "not that werewolves aren't cool, but it's not really where we were meant to be."  
  
You listen to them - look at them, all of them, in barely-concealed joy. They are your friends, your bandmates, your soulmates in the most literal sense of the word. You have all come so far and have gone through so many repetitions of the cycle that your heart no longer beats to an independent rhythm, but in harmony with the others - _we are, we are, we are_ \- and the fact that you six are linked inevitably together is the final truth, the most beautiful of them all. "You'll be with me again, right?"  
  
"Of course," Paul tells you, and smiles his slow, beautiful and wise smile. "of course, Till. Don't you know? It's simply an unchangeable truth at this point, when we've gone through this so many times. We're more than just six Germans setting themselves on fire while singing about setting ourselves on fire. We're _family_. That's what we're trying to figure out - how to live long, live happily, and love. That's all a man can ask for in a perfect life."  
  
 _Family._ That one word, ever so fundamental and yet so elusive, what you never thought you had until this point. Just like that your world takes shape again, white nothing dissolving into rooms and tangible space, taking the form of your house once more. Now that you've made your choice, your time in limbo is going to be quite limited - you will be the first to leave because you are the oldest and thus born into the world first. And after that you will have to wait two decades or so to meet up with your friends once more, build relationships with them all over again, start Rammstein all over again.  
  
It will be hard, it won't be the happiest journey - but you have met and loved your friends in all timelines, you experienced the joy of bringing up your daughter, and you wouldn't exchange that for anything. No, you will keep going - again and again, knowing that the pain is worth enduring, and one day you will earn your happy ending. Just as you are thinking this, Richard sets a plate down in front of you; German pancakes, soft and light and fluffy and not burnt in the slightest. So simple, and yet it took so long to get this far. As you sink your fork into the surface of the pancake Richard sits down beside you, locking your left hand with his - rings making a soft clinking sound - and nuzzles into your shoulder. You turn around, smile and then kiss him, prompting a little cheer and sly grins from all your bandmates. There will be no more running back up the stairs. No more running or turning back, full stop. This time, you'll face things head on, and it'll be okay. This time, the food is cooked to perfection.  
  
Your name is Till Lindemann, and my God, this is the most delicious breakfast that you've ever eaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **101\. Six Hopeful Words**
> 
> And they lived happily ever after.
> 
> _It'll be okay this time, I promise._
> 
> _Now go and face your future._
> 
> \-----
> 
> This one wasn't as depressing or sad to write for me as it was completely and utterly _horrifying_. Something about the constant Nazi/Socialism allusions and screwy formatting. Why I write stuff that scares me is beyond myself, but I think my inspiration affected that a lot.
> 
> See, this fic is my dedication to 'Reise, Reise'. If you rewind Reise Reise, the first track of the album (first 2004 pressing, the others don't have this easter egg) back a few seconds, you get this [neat little easter egg](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTjxqqzUA5g#t=39s) \- which was the clip from the blackbox of [Japan Airlines Flight 123](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japan_Airlines_Flight_123).
> 
> Five hundred and twenty people died in that flight. It's currently on record as the deadliest single-aircraft accident in history. Reise Reise is a creepy as shit song as it is, I reckon, but that easter egg... knowing that Rammstein encoded the final moments of half a thousand people into that album made it kind of a high-grade nightmare fuel for me. I had nightmares the night I discovered that the easter egg existed. And because I'm Kimby and I get the weirdest plotbunnies, I wrote this in response. That was all. I'm terrible at horror, but I can at least do sad and I can also pull off a degree of 'unnerving' - so I worked that both into this piece. I think it came out sad, hopeful, dreary, detailed... all the odd little things. That's why I threw in so many things from Rammstein's past that are considered _really uncomfortable_ to discuss, I guess. 
> 
> Next chapter has notes on the entire work. This thing is huge, so the notes and injokes became too long to contain here.


	2. Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Till/Richard, meta concepts, slash, depressing content, political overtones in some, possibly unsavory depictions of real-life people within the families of the band (although not to children), severe angst, screwy formatting, heavy German usage at parts, possibly confusing narrative (constant POV switches), tastelessness, blasphemy. Some sexual content but not strong enough to warrant warning. AU-ish for a reason. Trigger warnings for abuse of humans and animals, discussions of death, and abusive relationships.

**The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind - Notes**

These are the notes that come alongside 'The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind'. As those vignettes draw upon a lot of real-life incidents and otherwise upsetting and disturbing content, and I couldn't subject you to a TL;DR note at the bottom, I've decided to create a separate notes page and upload it. It's fine if you don't read this; this is just an educational background piece. Links and citations will be present to show research.

Not all vignettes are mentioned, just a few. Sometimes subtext is better off as subtext. But this is still quite an amount. **Contains a lot of concepts and incidents that _will_ make you feel uncomfortable. Proceed with caution and read all warnings.**

 **Warnings:** Till/Richard, meta concepts, slash, depressing content, political overtones in some, possibly unsavory depictions of real-life people within the families of the band (although not to children), severe angst, screwy formatting, heavy German usage at parts, possibly confusing narrative (constant POV switches), tastelessness, blasphemy. Some sexual content but not strong enough to warrant warning. AU-ish for a reason. **Trigger warnings** for abuse of humans and animals, discussions of death, and abusive relationships.

\----------------------------------

 **6:** No semblance to reality. I'm just really proud of this one for a reason I can't fathom.

 **11 + 12 + 13** : Herr Werner Lindemann, Till's father, was reported to be an alcoholic and regularly subjected Till to beatings. There is more to him, however, than just calling him a drunk abusive bastard - he was a poet and writer in his own right and a very good one. He died in 1993; Till apparently never saw his grave, but as for whether he has now, I don't know. Till's father complex is a constant theme in his writings - 'Messer' is very blatant about it at some points, and sometimes in greatly disturbing ways.

 **15** : _'Selbstbefriedigung'_ translates literally to 'self-satisfaction', or more technically 'masturbation'.

 **16 + 17:** From what I know, Till left sports school because he was either caught hoarding porn or as a result of his abdominal muscle being torn. 

 **18:** Most people probably know already that 1776 was when the Declaration of Independance was signed. Relating it to Till _leaving home_ was however kind of dramalamadingdong *shot*

 **21:** This one links back to Till's poem '[Meine Mutter Ist Blind](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://deutscheliebe.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/till-lindemanns-messer-meine-mutter-ist.html)'.

My Mother is Blind - Till Lindemann

_Acne and rosacea walk hand in hand  
Over my soft skin  
Over untouched country  
And burns it as a childish prank_

_My father says to me  
Darling child, believe here and now:  
The woman who takes you for a husband  
Will, herself, be ugly or blind_

_In the mirror I see that  
I carry no torch upon my face  
I am lonely, but not alone -  
Acne and rosacea are always there for me.  
_

I am also aware that this one has rather screwy formatting; I've become very fond of those lately ._.

 **22:** This one links back to '[Haesslich](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://deutscheliebe.blogspot.com/2012/02/till-lindemanns-messer-hasslich.html)' / '[Morgenstern](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://en.affenknecht.com/lyrics/rammstein-morgenstern-lyric-with-english-translation/)'. Both are linked.

 **31 (+ 26):** The two tie with each other. Why did I choose to use German for Richard's introduction? Because... because why not, that's why. It took me like an hour to write because my German is very, very limited. But hey. At least I can say that I didn't just copy and paste to Google Translate. I'm of the opinion that if you have _any_ background in any language you want to write in, you ought to have a go at it yourself, not just input stuff into GT. This was what it was _meant_ to say.

_Your name is Richard Kruspe and you are nineteen years old. You're a cashier; but your work isn't much fun, depresses you and you can't exactly better yourself from where you are now because you're so young and helpless. "God, help," you sigh. So lonely, and yet not alone._

_A customer enters the shop and walks around as fast as he can. You watch what he's buying; diapers, infant formula, ten apples, two cans of corn and - a packet of gummy bears? You do find that last one quite funny, seeing as it comes from someone so tall and muscular. "Do you have any cigarettes?" he asks. His eyes are a sea-green; you have never seen such beautiful eyes before._

_"Only Marlboro, how many would you like to buy?"_

_"Ten. How much is it?" he's in a hurry. Better make it quick._

_"Three Marks."_

_"I'll take it."_

_You nod nervously. He is so handsome, you think, and then you blush. 'Richard, don't think so much!' you tell yourself and then you clear your throat. "There. Is that all?"_

_"Yes, that's all."_

_"So that's... all together... 28.70 Marks," he gives you thirty. "and here's 1.30 Marks."_

_"Thank you," he says with a little smile. "have a good night!"_

_"... Thank you."_

_Perhaps you will see him again._

The German is probably wrong on every other line and likely even more frequently than that. Kind of jarring to see that I can only write such basic and poor-quality prose in German after writing fairly-elaborate English prose for so long! DX But we all learn somewhere. I will probably keep the German text as it is in the fanfic for the sake of reminding myself that _that_ , with all the mistakes and all, is another step towards bettering myself - but please, _please_ correct it and post as comment or critique if you speak German. I will link it in the main fic.

 **35 + 36 + 37:** 10th of October 1989, Richard was riding the subway when he came out in the middle of a political demonstration; he was indeed struck on the head and jailed for just being there, and he was in there for six days. Only a month later the Wall would fall, but tensions were extremely high beforehand, as you could imagine. The KISS poster incident also apparently happened in real life; the experience of being arrested led him to sneak out of East Berlin and into the West, although he moved back later.

 **40:** Paul's drunk speech is an [actual East Berlin joke](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://www.osaarchivum.org/files/holdings/300/8/3/text/24-5-225.shtml). And bananas were indeed rare in East Berlin, and very prized! Gotta love East Berlin jokes. Who said Germans don't have a sense of humour? This one is my favourite:

_Early in the morning,[Honecker](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/) arrives at his office and opens his window. He sees the sun and says: "Good morning, dear Sun!" The sun replies: "Good morning, dear Erich!"  
Honecker works, and then at noon he heads to the window and says: "Good day, dear Sun!" The sun replies: "Good day, dear Erich!"  
In the evening, Erich calls it a day, and heads once more to the window, and says: "Good evening, dear Sun!" The sun is silent.  
Honecker says again: "Good evening, dear Sun! What's the matter?"  
The sun replies: "Kiss my arse. I'm in the West now."_

**42:** I imagine that Paul was also conscripted only to refuse the service. Whether he really would have been physically unfit to serve, I don't know - I doubt it somehow. He might be 'tiny' by Rammstein standards, but that still comes to five feet nine or so. Wouldn't call that 'too little'.  
 __

 **45:** I don't know if the members of Rammstein were present on the night of the 9th of November 1989 when the Wall is considered to have 'fallen'. Till did drive across the day after and buy gummy bears, I'm sure of that, but otherwise it's just fantasy.

 **51 + 52:** I confess to maybe false-advertising in this one. x_x Pianists practicing on the windowsill is not unheard of, Regina Spektor has done it for one, and when I was younger I read a biography about _a_ pianist from classical/Romantic era practicing on the windowpane and breaking the glass. My mind tells me that this pianist was Mozart, but I somehow doubt this. But I can for the life of me not remember _who_ that was, or if I will ever find the source of this story, or if it even happened.

 **53 (+ 49):**[This image of Paul](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a233/shadowklonoa/tumblr_lq5afsK3gd1qcvfl2bmp.jpg) will explain the question somewhat. And in real life I don't believe Flake ever answered this. 

 **57:** As witty as this might be, I don't claim this. I believe the real author is Margaret Atwood, who used the form: 'Longed for him; got him; shit'.

 **62 + 63:** [Schneider did drown a cat in his youth.](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://www.bizarremag.com/news-and-videos/how-bizarre-is/9475/christoph_doom_schneider.html) **Please do not judge him for this.** It's not as if the GDR had a lot of veterinarians to spare. When this happened, he was very likely in a position where he could do literally nothing else, and he does say that he's regretted it dearly. I'm not for animal cruelty at all, either - I think ear cropping, declawing etc is inhumane, for one, seeing as the latter is basically akin to cutting off the ends of your fingers, flesh and bone and all. But I'm not going to argue with people on this issue, not here at least.

 **65:** Read the interview above and you will find a section about Schneider smoking something and talking to Flake via telepathy. it makes just as much sense in context.

 **69: + 71:** Caron Bernstein did paint a picture of Richard with a bullet through his head and exhibit it. **Again, please do not judge her for this.** Nobody has the right to tell her or Richard that either of them didn't suffer or their suffering didn't matter.

 **73:** I can't be the only person who thought that Richard was very... unusual during the Ohne Dich video. He usually takes centre stage during music videos, but he didn't for that one. He mostly stayed in the background looking detached, save for that absolutely horrified expression he made when he saw Till fall.

 **75:** If you have ever read Banksy's book, 'Wall and Piece', you might recognize the format of this one.

 **83 (+ 76):** [I believe I don't need to go into detail with the SS.](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schutzstaffel)

 **84:** This is my way of taking potshots at my own work, _The Flowers of Kubler-Ross_ and _Montage_ where the Till-dies-atop-a-mountain scenario happens. I'm aware of my obsession with killing off Till in my fanfics, and this theme when it comes to the many deaths of Till. So yeah. Not what happens this time.

 **87:** _Beim Ersten Mal Tut's Immer Weh_ is the title of an Oomph! song, meaning 'It Always Hurts the First Time'.

 **89:** On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me - five golden rings ~~four calling birds three french hens two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.~~

 **91:** 'Samsara' is the concept of birth/life/death/reincarnation in Indian religions. The cycle of it, rather. I wanted to title it 'Metempsychosis' but then seeing as that is also the partial title of a very unfortunate fic also by myself... I held back. x_x

 **92:** _'Piriform'_ is Latin for 'pear-shaped'. The more you know.

 **97:** 'The Sound of Thunder', a short story by Ray Bradbury, explores the Butterfly effect.

 **99:** I hesitate to admit to this one. But this _is_ the actual transcript of the final few seconds of the black box of Japan Airlines Flight 123, the very section that Rammstein encoded into Reise Reise. The part in brackets I added by myself, in reality the first impact happened and the recording was cut off right after the final 'pull up'.

This was the single most horrifying one to write, even though it was technically a transcript and not at all original. I also researched other black box transcripts and the last words of many others who died before and after this incident; it was terrifying and I was nearly sobbing with the effort of getting through them. The final words of many pilots verge on a scream of terror at what's happening to them, a curse word... or a simple 'I love you' towards whoever they're thinking of. It really does make you think. Whoever gets jobs listening to and transcribing those recordings... I would not envy their job at all. How can they... how can they _manage_?

Charlie/Victor/Romeo is NATO Phonetic spelling for Cockpit Voice Recorder, one of the components of black boxes (they're not even actually black, they're more orange and white), and also the title of a [1999 play](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Victor_Romeo) about flight accidents/incidents that also incorporates black box transcripts.


End file.
